


When the devil sits beside you

by Imjohnlocked87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Scars, Slow Burn, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87
Summary: After five years of marriage, Lestrade discovers that Alex, his husband, was married to another man. They broke up, and he moves into a depriment singles' apartment building with no job, no money and no future.Sunken and depressed, he lets the days go by until, one night, he eavesdrops on his neighbours planning a murder. Determined to save the victim, he decides to investigate it himself.An alternate universe where Lestrade is a painter, John a neurosurgeon, Mycroft a lawyer and Sherlock..., well, you'll discover it along with Lestrade
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 75
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. A life in ten boxes

Greg looked at the boxes around him and strangled a sob. He sighed and sat in the only chair in the room. Actually, it was the single piece of furniture in the room, apart from the cot. 

He fought the lump in his throat. He had cried too much and wouldn't shed one more tear. He knew he had to find a way to move on, but he didn't have the slightest idea what it could be. 

Greg bowed his head and sighed, wondering where everything went wrong, at what point his life turned to shit. Two months ago, he had a job, a husband, a beautiful house, an expensive car. 

Now he only had ten semi-full boxes. 

For a month now, his life became a nightmare. 

Everything started two months ago, the day that man knocked at his door, looking for Alex, Greg's husband, who was at work. Greg asked him if he wanted him to give Alex a message. The man nodded. 

"Please, tell Alex his husband is looking for him." 

Greg froze. His husband? It had to be a mistake. _He_ was Alex's husband. They had been married for five years. He asked the man if it was a joke and told him he was Alex's husband. The man at the door almost fainted. 

From that moment on, everything went very fast. When Alex arrived home, Greg asked him about the man pretending to be his husband. He denied it all, claiming it should be some former employee trying to get back at him. 

Alex was the CEO of a successful company and had the bad habit of humiliating his competitors or employees he did not consider productive, making him great enemies. So Greg believed him. A bad joke to create tension within the couple, he told himself, and he forgot about it. For that reason and because his husband refused to talk about it.

But two days later, Greg received a marriage certificate by e-mail. He thought at first that it was a forgery until he checked it at the Registry Office. It was legal. Alex and that man, Tom, had been married for eight years. 

Greg couldn't give credit. Eight years! Alex was still married to Tom when he married him. How was it possible Alex didn't even mention him? Greg would have waited until he got divorced. Alex knew he was an understanding man who would have waited as long as it took.

Faced with such evidence, Alex confessed the truth. He was married, but he wasn't happy with Tom, the other man. A mean man who only hurt him. When he met Greg and fell in love with him, he got afraid of his reaction if he left him, so he decided to act as if Tom didn't exist. 

His husband promised him he would ask for a divorce, that he would fix everything, and asked Greg to forgive him. He didn't say anything about Tom because he was afraid of losing him. Greg believed him, as he always did because he trusted him completely. Alex assured he hadn't seen Tom for six years, that their story was totally over. For him, there was only Greg. 

Everything went back to normal for a few days until Greg decided to look for this Tom on Facebook. He wasn't looking for anything specific, but something inside him pushed him to do it. 

He befriended him. Reading his sentimental status as married, something twisted inside him. Greg clicked on the photos with a shaking hand, and his heart shrank. The oldest was from eight years ago, from his wedding with Alex. But the recent ones, three and a half months ago, showed a trip to the Norwegian fjords. And in all of them, Alex and Tom appeared kissing, embracing, smiling… a bloody happy couple. 

Three and a half months. He blinked, feeling sick—three and a half months. Precisely the same week Alex told him he should have joined his co-workers for a team-building seminar out of the town. The same week he, Greg, couldn't go with him because he was up to his neck in work.

And not only that trip. Greg took his agenda and checked the other photos where Alex and Tom appeared together. He closed his eyes, unable to stand the pain, almost unable to breathe: all Alex's business trips dates matched with the ones stated on the photos. 

After several days of tears, arguments, and sorrow, Greg couldn't keep living with him. He left the house and looked for a place to stay until he could clear his mind and rebuild his broken heart. 

Alex didn't feel guilty at all. On the contrary, he felt outraged when Greg broke up with him. That made him show his true colours and didn't hesitate to take revenge on him. 

At work, Alex was his boss (it was how they met when Greg started working for him). He fired him. No words, no explanations. Only a letter of dismissal informing him he was fired and didn't have any severance pay since the firing was based on his job's low quality. 

Then sued him for his home's abandonment, causing him to spend almost all of his savings on lawyers, And the divorce trial was no better.

So there he was, sitting on the floor, looking around at his new… Greg thought it couldn't even be called home. 

The apartment was tiny. He couldn't afford anything else with his scarce savings. Only one room served both as a living room and bedroom, a minute kitchen, and a tiny bathroom where he could barely take a shower. 

Greg laid down on the bed, his right hand under his nape, his left one weeping the tears that stubbornly flowed from his eyes. He looked at the ceiling, unfocused, wondering what he had done to deserve it. People said everything in life has a purpose, but he wasn't able to glimpse which one. 

Since he arrived, almost a month ago, he had not had the strength to place anything. He had been unable to open the boxes. Opening them and putting its content out meant accepting it was really over between him and Alex, that his life was now reduced to a pile of useless junk, locked up in an apartment that barely exceed thirty square meters. 

He spent days lying in the cot, the blinds drawn, the light turned off, surrounded by silence and solitude, thinking and thinking over everything that happened, wondering how he didn't notice, how he could be such an idiot. By night, unable to sleep, he ate chocolate cookies and French fries while watching some dreadful telly. It comforted him or, at least, anaesthetized the pain of his broken heart that, he was sure, would never be amended.

He had not left the apartment in all that time, but, that day, claustrophobia suffocated him. With his head down, stuffed into his coat, his steps faltering, and praying that he would not meet anyone, he left the building and went through the streets nearby the flat. 

A hundred meters ahead, a little park was full of kids playing and shouting and dogs running and chasing each other. For a moment, he thought about adopting a dog. Maybe the animal could help him not to feel so empty, so sad, such a failure. 

He sat on a bench near a small pool full of big scaring black fishes and remained there until the sun went out. How long had he been sitting there? He had no idea. It was strange not having a future, a purpose, nowhere to go back to the end of the day, no one waiting for him. Greg felt the tears coming again to his eyes and pressed them with his hands. He didn't want to cry anymore. Alex didn't deserve his tears. In fact, he could feel fortunate to have discovered Alex's cheating before it was too late. 

He shook his head. Who did he want to fool? 

He stuck his head between his shoulders. He had to accept reality. He had to assume his former life was over, and now another one was opening up before him—sad, lonely, and grey. Tears rolled down his cheeks. 

He checked his phone, hoping to find some missed calls, hating himself for expecting them. 

Deep down, he kept hoping Alex would call him repentant, telling him he was the love of his life, apologizing for all he had made him suffer. He would promise Greg that from that moment on, it would be just the two of them, that he would love only him...

But Alex didn't show any sign of repentance since Greg stormed out of their flat. On the one hand, Greg felt relieved. He wasn't sure to be able to resist if Alex asked him to get back together. But on the other, he couldn't bear the idea of Alex not missing him, that so many years together didn't mean anything to him. 

Greg felt himself dying at the thought of Alex with the other guy. He imagined them laughing at him, at poor Greg, so sure his husband loved him, perhaps toasting the fool Greg because it all was a plan to take Greg out of Alex's life. 

He clenched his fists and groaned at the pain caused by the thought. He shook his head. No, no. A new life, a new life. This was what any friend would have told him, but he had none left. All his former friends worked for Alex and, afraid to lose their jobs, left him out. He was alone.

It started to get cold, so he decided to buy some Thai food, French fries, and cookies and go back to his apartment. He could have dinner watching any stupid program at the telly, hoping it could help him to forget damned Alex. 

He entered the building and, waiting for the elevator, his gaze fell on the mailboxes. 

Out of curiosity, he looked up, who lived next door to him, wondering what poor devil lived in the apartment next door.

He was surprised to read two names. That miserable building was the refuge for divorced and abandoned, broken and disoriented hearts, but not for couples. But in fact, there were two names: John Watson, MD, and Sherlock Holmes. John and Sherlock. He wondered how they would have ended up there.

Perhaps two unfortunate souls so badly off financially that they had no choice but to share that slum to survive, even being a doctor, as one of them seemed to be.

Greg shrugged. He had enough problems to worry about anyone's else. He went to his apartment and sat on the floor, eating while watching a bird's documentary. His heart was constrained when the narrator told swans were paired up for life. Even the swans were more fortunate in love than him. He sighed and turned off the TV, resting his head on the cot, wondering what he was going to do now. 

He had another long night of insomnia ahead of him, as he had since he left Alex. He couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. Then he woke up startled, panting, wondering where he was. And when he realized it, he invariably cried, feeling broken, lost, and terrified.

He thought about sleeping on the floor. Maybe that way, he wouldn't feel so alone in the cot. Even being a tiny one, he couldn't help but be swallowed up by loneliness every time he got into in. The memory of the nights by Alex's body made him feel even emptier.

He was about to fall asleep when he heard a sound and pierced his ear. Nothing. His heart was pounding in his chest. Could it be a thief? The noise went out again. It came from the apartment next door. He then heard the rumour of two male voices speaking in a low voice.

He listened more carefully, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. 

When he did, he raised his eyebrows, alarmed.

"You have to kill her," ordered a man's firm voice. 

"No, I don't want to do it," replied the other man, in a velvety baritone voice. 

He blushed when he heard the distinctive sound of kissing. The couple must have been lying down because the voices sounded sleepy, and the kisses were quiet and soft as if they had just made love.

"If you don't kill her, she will ruin everything." 

"I grew fond of her."

"Should I be jealous?"

The other man chuckled. Greg heard another kiss. 

"Maybe. It happens to me from time to time." 

"I know, but you shouldn't get attached to someone you have to kill." 

"She doesn't have to die. We can pardon her." 

"No, you can't, and you know it." 

Greg was getting more and more alarmed, wondering what to do. For a moment, he was tempted to call the police. But deep down, what evidence he had? A conversation he overheard on the sly. His neighbours could easily refute him and even report him for harassment. The last thing he needed now was to get into a more mess with lawyers. How would he pay them when he barely could face the rent on that pathetic dump? 

He drowned out a sob and noticed his stomach shrinking, scared, as it always got when he thinks about the future, the bills, his life. He had to look for a job, that was clear, but since he discovered Alex's deception, he had no strength to do it. He just wanted to spend his days hiding in that flat, wishing a hole would open up in the ground and disappear inside him forever. And now, to top it all off, he had two hired killers as neighbours. 

"You didn't like her from the start," complained the man with the deep voice. "That's why you want to kill her." 

"It's not that, and you know it. But if you let her live, she will ruin the whole plan. The only way to get a perfect balance is by killing her. If you don't, everything will go to hell."

"I can let her know that she is in danger and flee to a distant country, from which she will never return." 

"She immediately would go to the police. And everything would have been fucked up." 

The other man snapped his tongue in frustration. It was clear the man who advocated killing her was right, even though he did not want to acknowledge it. 

Greg couldn't believe the coldness with which they talked about ending a human life. He wondered who the poor wretch would be. Someone who probably was living happily and peacefully, not knowing that her fate was in the hands of two such heartless people, talking about killing her comfortably lying in bed. 

"I don't want to," repeated the other, stubborn, "we could kill the old man instead." 

Greg gasped and covered his mouth with his hand, afraid that they had heard him. If they found out he knew their plans, they would kill him too. And they lived wall to wall. In that single building, no one would worry about hearing screams or fights. Greg himself already heard more than one, and nobody didn't give it a second thought. Conversations with ex-husbands and ex-wives often ended too often in huge fights from which no one got anything right. 

"Let's go to sleep and think about it tomorrow." 

"There's nothing to think about. I'm not going to kill her." 

"Molly agrees with me. And Mycroft." 

Greg jotted down the names in a notebook, feeling a shiver running through his body. They were the other gang member's names. He frowned. It was clear. Both men were there to set the murder, but one of them, the executioner, was backing out. 

He found it curious that the other did not make any arguments regarding the money they had been paid or similar, or that he was not angry. But from his tone, it was clear that he was convinced that the other man would eventually carry out the mission.

"Besides, and with this, I'm done, and we're going to sleep, you can't trade her for the old man. In the end, you have to kill him too." 

The other man yawned. 

"Too many corpses, don't you think?"

"It was you who decided to make it so, quite a lot of blood lust on your part this time". 

"And that doesn't scare you?"

"Me? That's what attracted me from you." 

Both men chuckled, and the sound of kisses and soft moans filled the room. 

Greg covered his ears, still impressed by their coldness. Too many bodies, they said. And they thought it was funny and arousing. A couple of psychopaths but... through the mailbox... of course, the mailbox was a cover.

He saw it in the movies and on TV a bunch of times. People who found out that one of their neighbours was a serial killer and, to their amazement, kept repeating that he was a charming man who helped them take out the garbage, cross the street or walk the dog. 

Greg gulped in the dark, not quite sure what to do. He was tense and scared. He couldn't help but wonder how they would kill their victims. Gun? Knife? Maybe a slow, painful death? He covered his head with the quilt, trying to get the image out of his head.

Calm down, he told himself, calm down. In the morning, he would find another place to live. It was not uncommon for the tenants of those apartments to disappear overnight, so their departure would not be suspicious. Or so he hoped. 

Greg felt dizzy, his mind full of gruesome images. He clenched his eyelids, trying to fall asleep, panicking about the thought of being next to two serial killers.

He spent the night awake, sleepless, not daring to move until, he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. 


	2. A crazy idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg takes a decision

Greg woke up suddenly, restless. He couldn't move. Terrified, he discovered someone tied his arms to the headboard bed and his legs to the bedposts and gagged him so that, however much he tried to scream, no sound came out of his mouth.

"What do you think? Do we kill him, or do we forgive him? You could kill him instead of the woman".

Lestrade overcame with panic when he recognized his neighbour's voice. He attempted to fight it, free himself, breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes wide open, and sweating in panic, but the bonds prevented him from moving. He finally stopped fighting, praying inwardly that they killed him quickly.

"He listened to everything we said. We should kill him," replied the deep baritone tone.

"Haven't you grown fond of this one?" chuckled the other man.

"Please," he pleaded, tearfully, through the gag, "please don't hurt me".

Two figures appeared beside him in the darkness of the room. More than seeing them, he felt their presence, their sinister and sadistic smiles, and the anticipation of the pleasure that would come while they killed him.

"I'm sorry, Greg," said the deep baritone voice, "You know too much. You even wrote down our names. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Bad boy, eavesdropping on private conversations."

"I won't say anything," he tried to yell through the gag, "I swear, I won't say anything."

"That's what they all say," replied the other, "but they go to the police with the story. And we can't let that happen, can we?"

"No, of course not," replied the other, mockingly.

"Please," sobbed Greg, "please. I won't say anything. I swear it," he repeated, terrified.

"Besides, in your case, we will even do you a favour," chuckled the first man, "to get rid of this life you have, so boring, so lonely... look at you. Forty years and what have you got? Nothing. Ten boxes. Your shitty life can be summed up in ten boxes. And, if you look in them, you have nothing of value."

"All your life, you have been a loser, getting from failure to failure. That's why you ended up here, in this cemetery of losers".

"And you are surprised your husband cheated on you?"

"Cheating?" the other one mocked with a cruel chuckle. "He had another husband. Another husband. And two kids! It's no wonder he found himself another family, living with a loser like you".

Greg couldn't help to sob, humiliated, not daring to challenge their cruel comments and laughter. Why should he? They were right. He was a failure. Alex told him that when he left him. That he was a failure and would come back after a few days crawling, as he had always done, begging for forgiveness, because he was nothing. A big nothing, his ex-husband, emphasized.

Tears of humiliation rolled down his cheeks as the two men laughed out loud.

He felt the cold barrel of a gun on his forehead. In the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a finger pulling the trigger. The shot echoed across the room.

He woke up screaming, startled, drenched in sweat. Panting, he groped until he found the light and turned it on. There was nobody in his flat. It all had been a nightmare. But it seemed so real…

He hid his face in his hands, crying with relief, his stomach shrinking with fear, trying to drown out the sound of his sobbing, terrified, his body shaking violently, though he couldn't get rid of them calling him a failure. Alex was right. He was useless. What was he thinking about when he left him? Did he think he could get by on his own? Alex knew it, telling him Greg wouldn't have anything if it weren't for him.

Lestrade shook his head, trying to stop the whirlwind of thoughts that invaded his head, which made him sink more and more into the black abyss in which he was plunged after discovering Alex's deception.

A while later, when managed to calm down a bit, he jumped out of bed and, trying not to make any noise, went to the door and made sure it was locked. He looked around and pushed a small chest of drawers from the kitchen to the door, locking it. Then he quickly picked up what little he had around the room with the idea of running away as soon as possible. It had been lucky not to unpack the boxes.

He stopped, thinking of the woman and the man, the future hitmen's victims. If he did nothing, he would have their deaths on his conscience all his life, if he ran away. He couldn't escape the fact he knew they were going to be killed.

He sat in his chair and rubbed his short, grey hair, trying to decide what to do.

He cursed the day Tom appeared in their house, claiming to be Alex's husband. If that man hadn't shown up... he would still be happy now and wouldn't be two hitmen's target.

Lestrade shook his head. No. It was Alex who he had to blame, who cheated him. He had cheated on both of them. Because the other man also seemed devastated. Although, in his mind, Greg pictured both laughing at him, at the stupid who spent five years with a married man.

He didn't even think about reporting him. He didn't even fight the divorce. How could he? Alex had a battalion of lawyers while he only had one ex-officio lawyer, who, though was very willing, had neither the means nor the experience to deal with the most prestigious law firm in whole London. Alex could afford them without any problem.

They put all of Alex's properties in the name of others and even created other participants in his company so that it seemed that his husband only received a small part of the benefits. Hence, the judge concluded that he did not have to pass on any economic compensation to Greg.

He hugged himself to the pillow, sunken and desperate, not fully understanding how he had come to this situation and how he had not read the signs. It was true Alex travelled a lot and spent many hours away from home, but because of his work, it had always been like that, even before they became boyfriends, six months after being hired by Alex.

Suddenly he opened his eyes and stood up as if a bolt of lightning had passed through his body, a great excitement taking the place of fear.

In his mind, everything made sense. Listening to his neighbours' conversation had not been casual. It was his mission to stop those killers and prevent their crimes. That way, his life would have a goal. That way, he would be useful. Even if he were killed trying to save them, it would be better than spending his life in that hole, lamenting himself and licking his wounds.

He knew how to do it. He was absolute Lena Dierre's fan, the protagonist of the most successful and best-selling thriller's saga of the moment. Lestrade was a devoted follower of it. He read all seven books that their author, as mysterious as his novels, had written until them.

He remembered reading it in the second novel, Death on the Thames, in which Lena Dierre went to live in the apartment next to that of a man suspected of committing various ritual crimes and throwing the bodies into the river.

The resemblance was not encouraging, and he could not leave out that in the book, everything went well because it was fiction, but in his case, everything could go wrong.

Lena was much more intelligent than him: brilliant, able to see what was hidden from the other's eyes at the crime scenes, especially the Yards', and when interrogating the suspects; apparently a cold, smug insolent and calculating woman but deep down with a much more human heart than she would like to admit.

In the company of his wife, Renatha, they both faced all kinds of dangerous situations, risking their lives to catch the criminals or slowly entangling them until they ended up giving themselves away.

He hesitated for a moment. It was crazy. What would happen if he got caught? But the idea was too tempting. He could... yeah, he could try, just once. He checked his watch—six-thirty in the morning.

Lestrade got out of bed, took a shower, and put on jeans and a t-shirt. Excitedly but trying not to make too much noise, he rummaged through the boxes until he found the drill in one of them. He took one glass from the kitchen, moved to the wall that separated the two apartments, sat down on the floor, leaned the glass against the wall, and stuck his ear to it.

After hearing the to men waking up having breakfast and living the apartment, he decided the best place for the hole was the left of the wall, near the corner, as Lena did in the book. That way, he would be unnoticed, and he could sit comfortably watching his neighbours. He wouldn't make a huge hole so that he could see without being seen. He would cover it up after taking a look at the other side.

He would say that he had gone too far in drilling the wall to hang a picture if they found out. He didn't know if a couple of killers would buy that story, but it was the only way to discover who the woman was and save her.

Greg took the finest bit he could find and loaded it into the drill, and pulled the trigger, almost shaking with excitement until it reached the other side and hauled it away from the wall. He blew a little to remove the remaining dust from the hole and looked through it.

He was surprised to find that the apartment was full of books, papers, journals, and files that took any free space in it. Stacked on the floor, squeezed into the small bookcase next to the window... On top of a little table, there was a laptop.

Greg broke away from the wall, confused. He had no idea what a hitman's apartment would look like, but he couldn't imagine it being full of books. Instead, he expected bags to hide automatic rifles, ropes to tie up suspects, and stuff like that.

He chuckled at the nonsense he just thought of. If the criminals were so easy to identify, the police would arrest them immediately. Indeed they would have a place to hide the weapons and everything they used for their commissions.

Lestrade found himself thinking he liked watching the apartment. Somehow, it made him feel less lonely as if he had real contact with another human being. He never considered himself a voyeur, but something was exciting about watching others who did not know they were observed.

He wondered what they would need all those books, papers, and notebooks for. For a moment, he doubted whether they would be manuals for killing or similar. But then he remembered that much of the work of murderers, like that of detectives, was based on waiting. Maybe they had to wait for the woman to do something or get somewhere, and only then kill her.

He snapped his fingers. The woman should live nearby, and that apartment was the guard post. He should check what was visible from the window to get an idea of the target. He became even more excited about his detective's work.

Well done, Greg, he told himself. You're doing great.

The door to the other apartment opened. Greg backed out, afraid of being discovered, but he forced himself to put his eye back on the hole. He should know how the suspects looked like to recognize them in a lineup or for a sketch of them.

He took a breath, trying to stay calm and not make a sound, and approached again to the hole in the wall, holding his breath.

Greg frowned, just as baffled by the man who just entered as when he looked at the apartment. He expected to find a bad-looking guy, with a few scars on his face from bully fights, rough and tough. Instead, the man in front of him was tall and thin but strong, elegant, and handsome, that moved graciously through the living room. His hair, black, curly and up to his shoulders, gave him a rebellious childlike air.

Greg estimated the man was about thirty-four years old, but he could be less. His movements were agile and fluid when he put down the grocery bags on the table and, with parsimony, began to place in the fridge what he bought.

Nothing attributable to a hitman, but fruits and vegetables, mainly, as Greg could see: apples, pears, lemons, oranges, lettuce... Greg almost snorted. Even murderers ate healthy nowadays.

Once he finished putting everything in the fridge, the man took his shirt off and threw it to the floor, while he moved around, looking for some book he left on the table. Dressed only in black jeans, Lestrade observed a multitude of scars on his back, on the back of his shoulders and arms: some long and thin, others small and rounded, some that seemed deeper, others more superficial Lestrade was not a doctor, but he knew they were not recent.

The man disappeared behind the bedroom door. Perhaps it was there that they kept the most incriminating things, since the living room, apart from being messy, had nothing... criminal about it.

Greg was baffled and euphoric, not only because he was living one of the stories he loved so much. He just realized he had not thought about Alex since he started spying on his neighbours.

It was clear that they had not realized he was being spied on and that his vigilance would sooner or later bear fruit, putting those criminals behind bars and, above all, saving the future victim's life.

For the first time since he left Alex, he felt life running through his veins again. He felt excited, eager to continue watching what was happening on the other side of that wall.

Greg took a shower and got dressed. He had to buy some food and wanted to go back home as soon as possible. Before leaving, he took another look through the hole. His neighbour, wrapped in a blue bathrobe, his hair still damp, was sitting at the table, typing on his laptop. In the background, he could listen to soft violin music, which Greg found familiar but could not remember who the composer was. The man took small sips from a cup of coffee to concentrate on his typing again. Greg wondered what he was writing. A status report for his supervisors?

It was almost ironic how harmless seemed then man, writing while drinking coffee and listening to music. But Greg knew better than to let himself be carried away by appearances. Reluctantly, he stepped out of the hole to go to the door and out into the street.

He came back a couple of hours later and bent over, looking through the hole again. His neighbour was still sitting at the table. After so much time at the computer, he rubbed his neck to disentangle it, focused on the screen. Now soft jazz notes filled the room, while the man's fingers ran over the keyboard at a furious speed, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Greg wondered where the other man was. A doctor, Greg remembered, according to the mailboxes.

Maybe following the victim. Lestrade gasped. Perhaps she worked at a hospital. The mailbox said he was a doctor, although clearly, that was a cover, but maybe it was a clue that he was somehow connected to the hospitals.

Greg scratched his head, taking notes in his notebook. He would have liked to do as in the movies, filling the wall with names, photos, and evidence, but he was afraid that they would discover he was watching them if they entered his apartment.

So when he finished his notes, he scavenged again in the boxes, took out a decorated metal cookie box, and hide the notebook inside it.


	3. Sherlock and John

When he put the box on the table, Lestrade looked at it with nostalgia. He and Alex bought it shortly after started dating, while they were spending a week in Copenhagen, and they saw it in a bakery's window. They ate all the cookies that same afternoon, amidst laughter and milkshakes, sitting in front of the sea. 

A tear rolled down his cheek. When the hell had it all gone to shit? Everything was so beautiful at first...

He felt worst remembering when, that same day, Alex got mad, shouting at him when Lestrade accidentally dropped it. Alex was right. He could be so clumsy sometimes… He could understand his rage outburst. The box was a symbol of their recent union, and he dropped it. Happily, the box didn't break or suffered the slightest scratch, and soon Alex calmed down, kissed and hugged him, turning again into the understanding and loving man he fell in love with.

Greg placed the groceries in the small refrigerator. If he had paid attention to what he was doing, he would have realised that he was unconsciously putting them in the same way that the killer placed them in his fridge. But he was too focused on his next step to notice that. He prepared himself a cheese and jam sandwich and decided it was time to get a new action. 

He left the flat again and ran downstairs. Once in the street, he realised with surprise it was the second time he got to the street in one day, while he almost hasn't left it for a whole month. Thrilled with the idea running in his mind, he turned the corner and bumped into a thin man who also seemed to be in a hurry. 

The man grunted, out of breath. Greg was taller and stronger than him, and he would have fallen to the ground if Lestrade hadn't grabbed him by the arm. He muttered an apology as the other man complained, turning the corner. Forgetting him, Lestrade walked quickly to the shop. He wasn't sure about what to purchase but hoped the shop manager would help him, as he crossed the shop's door. 

Greg told him he and his wife wanted to hire a babysitter, but his wife wasn't sure about leaving his one year baby with her, so they would wish to watch her the first days. 

The man recommended Greg a tiny camera that would fit perfectly in the hole he drilled but had a powerful and high quality one hundred and eighty-degree vision, what would allow them to check the whole room. Apart from that, it had a motion sensor, so it would switch itself when the babysitter entered the room. 

He explained patiently to Greg how to install it and connect it to his laptop and phone, so they could check their baby wherever they may be. It was expensive, almost all of his savings, but it was worthy. 

He ran back to the flat, slammed the door behind him, and, panting, looked through the hole. The laptop was closed on the table, and the living room was empty. The murderer must have finished his report and went out; Greg hoped that not yet to kill the woman. Lestrade needed a bit of time to save her. 

He took the camera out of the box and gently pushed it into the hole with hands shaking from excitement and nervousness. He measured it before going to the store, and the camera fitted it perfectly.

When he finished, he walked backwards, watching it with a critical eye, praying it will go as unnoticed as the shop manager assured him it would do. Then switched it on and moved to his laptop. 

He hesitated before opening it. If they caught him, he would be in a lot of trouble or dead. Although his goal was to prevent a murder, perhaps that invasion of the neighbours' privacy was a crime for which he could end up in jail. He shuddered, picturing himself locked up in the same prison cell as them. 

He shook his head; it was not the time to be coward. What he was doing was right. Sometimes, it was needed a bit of spying to catch the bad guys. And he was sure a judge would understand it, in case they report him, as long as he will be able to find pieces of evidence, of course. Or, at least, he hoped it.

But, deep inside, he had to admit it was not only preventing the murder that moved him. It was also because he was so focused on his task that he could not think about Alex, pushing aside the memories when they came to his mind. For a month, his brain restlessly analyzed how he didn't realize Alex was cheating on him. It was exhausting, depressing, and alienating. And now there he was, alive and excited, quickly brushing aside the memories of the damage Alex brought to him. 

It was completely irrational; Greg knew it because they were a couple of hitmen. But, at that point in his life, sunken, depressed, and not knowing which way to take, it was like a dim light on the horizon that showed him, if not a path, at least a direction to follow. Of course, he had not the slightest intention of having any real contact with them. Having a new goal in his life made him feel more… human. No, that was not the word. Valuable. Yes, it was. In all that madness, he started feeling worthy again.

He inhaled deeply, opened his laptop. The tiny camera was indeed as powerful as the man in the shop promised, offering a complete and clear view of his neighbours' living room. He narrowed his eyes and observed the apartment in most detail. 

The hitmen were quite messy. Apart from the papers and books stacked everywhere, one of the walls was covered with post-its and papers nailed to it. Lestrade zoomed the notes lined up next to each other. There were names wrote on them. He frowned until his gaze fell on a sheet of paper pinned to the wall above the post-its row, where the same names were listed; handwritten on the top of the sheet, there was a single word written with capital letters: TARGETS. 

Lestrade counted them, his throat completely dry. They were nine; his gaze returned to the notes. Under each one name, a sheet of paper with information about their age, physical description, profession, habits accompanied with a photograph to better identify them. 

Greg put his hand to his mouth in awe, gasping. Nine victims! They were planning to kill nine people! He pressed the key with a trembling hand that allowed him to screenshot what he was looking at. He shook his hands and stood up, nervous, pacing around the room, rubbing his short hair, not knowing what to do. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to calm down, telling himself that now more than ever, he had to keep a clear mind and not get scared. Nine people were going to die at those heartless people's hands, and he was the only one who could prevent it. 

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. For a moment, he thought of having something more potent, but he needed to be clear. He was on duty. He couldn't drink alcohol. 

With this thought, he waited to be a little calmer and sat down again in front of the screen, looking thoroughly at the sheets and notes. Some of them were linked with arrows drawn with a black marker directly on the wall that connected different victims that must be related somehow. 

He also saw photos, surely of the places where they were planning to kill them: a country house, a company, a crossroads in a forest... They were methodical in preparing his "assignments".

Unfortunately, the camera couldn't get any closer, so he could not read the sheets with the victim's details, but he could read the names. So he retook his notebook from the metal box and took note of them: 

  1. Phoebe king
  2. Anne Adam
  3. Emily Evans
  4. Chrissy George
  5. Rose Curtis
  6. Chris Adil
  7. Eddie Mark
  8. Hamish Layton
  9. Alex Craig



He scratched his head. None of the names sounded familiar to him. And they were common enough to find hundreds of them in the phone book, in case they were there. He chewed his thumbnail, thinking. He had to get in. The only way to locate and warn them was to get into the apartment, but how? You don't knock on a murderer's door to ask for salt. 

He looked around the apartment for a while longer, trying to find something useful. Still, apart from medical journals and hundreds of books, the apartment didn't contain anything relevant or anything that would help him get to know its occupants a little better. It was clear they expected to live there for a short time. Apart from glasses and plates, there was nothing special, nothing personal. 

An hour later, he decided it has no sense to keep on staring at an empty flat. It was Friday night, and his neighbours weren't at home as almost the rest of the town. Killing people? Having dinner with friends? He frowned. Did murderers have friends? Maybe other killers, or maybe people who didn't know they were and would freak out when they found out on TV. He imagined them at a table with three or four other couples, talking, laughing, and having a great time. The thought drowned his heart and made him feel even lonelier. 

He decided to go for a walk to the park nearby. The tubs of chocolate ice cream, cookies, and French fries he ate in front of the TV since he moved there made him gain almost six kilos in less than a month. 

He felt a twist in his stomach. 

When he lived with Alex, he used to run in the mornings before going to work. Not that he particularly liked it, but Alex always was watching him with a critical eye, and, as soon as he put on a half kilo or got a bit out of shape, he angrily lectured him until Greg went on a diet or went running again. 

Lestrade knew he did it for his own good, for his health. Still, on many occasions, he wished Alex talked to him in a more lovingly way, telling him that he didn't mind if he had gained a couple of kilos, that he liked him anyway, but that it would be good if he didn't gain any more weight or something. The way Alex talked to him made him feel ashamed of his body, rejected, and guilty, even though Lestrade knew that was not Alex's real intention.

He rummaged through the boxes, trying to find his sportswear, swearing. As usual, he found everything but what he was looking for. 

In one of the boxes appeared the only other thing shared with Alex he couldn't throw away. A ridiculous cream-coloured little teddy bear with a pink heart on his chest and a small pink wallet with "I love you" written in white letters. That was Alex's first gift on their first Valentine's Day together. 

Greg smiled sadly at the memory: the candle on the table, the two of them holding hands under it, nervous, stupidly grinning at each other, and still a little self-conscious, since they started dating less than two months before. He recalled Alex's blushed face when he gave him the gift, assuring it was silly, but he could help to buy it. 

Lestrade's eyes filled with tears. Forgetting his tracksuit, he sat on the floor, his back on the wall, and embraced the teddy bear. It was small, no bigger than his hand, but hugging it, he felt less alone, less betrayed, less abandoned, and a bit loved. He almost felt the toy cuddling him back. He was pathetic and ridiculous but couldn't stop squeezing the teddy bear. Crying over it, he fell asleep.

He woke up a little later. How long had he been asleep? He had no idea. Maybe ten minutes or two hours. He looked out the window. It was dark, and the street was silent. It had to be past midnight. 

He was hungry. He carefully left the teddy bear on the top of one of the closed boxes and moved to the fridge. He took out cheese, ham, mayonnaise, and ketchup and opened another bag of French fries. He should start buying healthier food. 

Greg shivered at the thought of perhaps meeting Sherlock in the market aisles since it seemed he did the shopping. Maybe he could introduce himself somehow, starting some insubstantial talk about the best apples, or vegetables he recommended, or something like that. 

"Idiot," he scolded himself. Someone as methodical as him would notice that Greg was trying to set him up. He had to be cautious and not got carried away. Of course, befriending them and infiltrating them would be the best way to... he shook his head. It would take a long time to get Sherlock and John to trust him enough to tell him their plans. Most likely, Greg would die before accomplishing that. Possibility aborted. 

He was generously spreading mayonnaise on the bread when the computer lit up. The camera was on. Licking his fingers, he moved to look at the screen. The apartment door was open, and the dark-haired man he had seen writing entered the flat, grunting with the effort, with a blond man clung on him, trying not to lose his balance, dragging his feet with hesitant steps. 

Lestrade bit his lip, smiling. The blond was pretty drunk, mumbling, and hanging on to the brunette, who barely managed to get him to the couch, sat him down on it, and put his legs up. 

Greg was shocked. If the brunette looked little like a killer, the other seemed almost amiable. But even so, he seemed… powerful. A bit shorter than the writer, his soft facial features contrasting with the other's sharp cheekbones... more friendly but clearly the kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to break your face if necessary.

He struggled to get his turtleneck off, which had got stuck on his head, and Greg was breathless. He was very muscular, broad pectorals, six-pack abdomen, strong biceps..., he exuded power and strength on all four sides; even drunk, Greg could tell he had a temper, lot of it, noticing it wasn't easy for the other to handle him.

For a moment, Lestrade thought about removing the camera, his mind filled with images of the man knocking at his door and strangling him with only one hand as he opened it, without further explanation. 

But now he couldn't do that, so, holding his breath as long as he could, he continued to stare at the scene.

"Are you feeling better?" asked the brunette with concern in his voice. 

The doctor shook his head and grimaced. He seemed about to throw up. The other man sat down at his feet, took off his shoes, and started massaging his feet. 

"John, let's go to bed," suggested who, obviously, was Sherlock. 

The other shook his head. 

"I told you not to take the last drink."

"We would have lost the game." 

"And you wouldn't be sick."

"Okay, Mom, next time I will behave," he muttered, covering his eyes with his right arm. 

Sherlock chuckled and moved to take the chair where he sat to write, to bring it closer to the couch. John stopped him with a gesture.

"No, go to sleep; you are tired."

"But..."

"I'm okay. All I need is for the world to stop spinning, and I will be perfectly fine."

Sherlock looked at him, hesitantly. 

"I'm a doctor. I know how to take care of myself". 

"Yes, obviously you do," the other retorted mockingly. "Would you like me to take off your trousers?"

John gave him a teasing look. 

"I mean to make you more comfortable," sighed Sherlock, rolling his eyes. 

"Yeah, sure. No, if I move, it will be worse."

Sherlock took a blanket, spread it over John, and tucked him in lovingly. The doctor let himself be done, delighted.

"Call me if you need anything." 

"I need you to stop worrying about me. I'm a neurosurgeon and older than you." 

"Only four years, don't brag so much. Rest, love." Sherlock deposited a soft kiss on John's lips, and the neurosurgeon kissed him back. 

"See you tomorrow." 

Sherlock put a cushion under John's head and tucked him back in. Greg could see the love in every gesture, the care in every move, the desire to make sure his partner was all right. 

He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open, probably so he could keep an eye on John from time to time. 

Greg was confused. Could someone who killed people really be so attentive and loving to another human being? Because it was clear that Sherlock's concern for John was genuine, and his gestures, intonation, and body language showed that he loved him. 

He didn't know if it was his imagination, but he also noticed something... unique among them; he didn't really know how to define it. It was... something intimate, soft, as if between them, besides love, there was a special connection, something more profound. Something that hadn't been processed by Greg's brain but echoed directly into his heart God, what the hell was happening to him?

Greg's mind pictured Sherlock and John sitting at the bar, drinking with his friends to some silly drinking game; maybe _I have never_ or similar. 

Alex liked those games too. He used to play them with his friends, all of them his employees. Greg found them quite dull, with their conversations about investments (Alex managed an investment firm), chatting about if the price of gold went up or down, if oil was a good investment and blah, blah, blah... When they drank, they were a bit funnier, but still a bunch of smug, self-righteous idiots.

Since the beginning, Alex didn't like Lestrade's friends, not even Bill, whom he knew since they were at the school together. For Alex, none of them was good enough. Dimmock didn't have a decent job (he was a painter), Mary and Martha were cute but pretty dumb, Dimmock was a conceited guy, Mitch was fat and crazy... and so on. Little by little, to avoid Alex's criticism, Greg stopped meeting them. And today, after breaking up with Alex, he didn't have a single friend left.

Lestrade felt a mix of anger, sadness, and guilty drowning his heart. His gaze dropped, at the sleeping John, a small smile dancing on his lips, breathing quiet and steady, and he relaxed a bit. 

It was conflicting and mad, but looking at him sleeping make Greg feel safer in a sense he couldn't decipher. So he grabbed the computer and took it to bed. He got under the sheets and wished good night to John and Sherlock, wondering how someone could be so connected with two strangers (two hired murderers!) but felt so isolated with the person with whom he shared so many years. Whatever the reason was, he settled down in bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep instantaneously for the first time in months.


	4. An unexpected meeting

A loud bang woke Greg. Startled, he jumped up in the cot and breathed in, relieved, when he realised the noise was caused by the laptop falling to the floor. 

He looked at his watch, surprised. It was almost seven in the morning. It was the f first night he slept through it and felt rested since he left Alex. 

He got into the shower, relaxing under the hot water, his heart a bit less constricted, a bit lighter than usual. Then, he moved to the kitchen, his feet leaving wet footprints on the floor, made coffee, and prepared some toast for breakfast, watching the screen. 

On it, John, dressed in a black and white checked shirt and jeans, had switched on a kettle, cut four big slices of bread and put them the toaster, and was reading something in his IPad while waiting for the breakfast to be ready. Fifteen minutes later appeared Sherlock, drying his wet hair with a towel, wrapped in his dark blue bathrobe. He embraced John from behind and kissed his nape. The doctor shivered and chuckled. 

"Good morning for you too," he said, turning and kissing his lips. 

"So, we keep with the plan?"

John nodded. 

"You know what to do. Leave the rest to me". 

Sherlock pursed his lips. 

"I could fix it in a second." 

"Yes, but we both know how you would fix it."

Sherlock snapped his tongue in annoyance. 

John smiled, amused, and embraced him tighter. 

"Let's do it my way this time, okay?" he asked, their kissing turning eager. 

Sherlock kissed John's half-open lips slowly and moaned softly in agreement. 

"And in the meantime?" he asked without parting his lips from John's.

"Keep on killing people, which is what you do best, "replied in a hoarse voice. "We will fix it right away." 

Still embracing Sherlock, John turned them both over, crushing the brunette against the counter, kissing him roughly, running his hands over his body, while Sherlock sank his hands into the short blond hair, moaning softly. 

John reluctantly broke the kiss, and they remained looking at each other, panting slightly, their noses rubbing until the doctor stepped aside with evident effort. 

"I can't be late," he mumbled in a hoarse voice. 

"I know. What time will you be back?" Sherlock answered in the same way.

John chuckled. 

"I don't know how long it will last. And when I'm done, I'll have to follow it up. Don't wait up for me". 

"You are an evil man, John Watson. And she is a fortunate woman". 

John chucked, drinking his coffee in a hurry. 

"Eat something," he shouted, leaving the apartment, a piece of toast still in his hand.

Sherlock nodded and bit into a piece of toast, which he left on his plate, glancing around the living room as if looking for something. 

Lestrade slammed the laptop shut. He would have sworn the man was looking straight into the camera; his pierced green-blue eyes narrowed as if he was trying to see who was behind it.

Lestrade stood there, his eyes closed, holding his breath, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would jump from his chest at any moment, waiting for the man breaking down his door to kill him. 

" _Keep on killing people, which is what you do best_ ," the alleged doctor said. 

But no one broke down his door. He didn't move an inch until his muscled protested. Then he opened an eye and looked around him. Nothing. The flat was empty. It must have been his imagination. Trying to calm his heart, he slowly reopened the laptop. 

He sighed heavily, alleviated. The man was again writing on his laptop; his back turned to him. 

A piece of soft music reached his ears, delicate string instruments first, and then two soprano's voices filled the room. 

Greg was overwhelmed by the women duet's magic beauty. He let himself be rocked by the soft melody, by the cadence of the waves created by their voices. His soul felt light, and he flew away from there in the music's wings. 

Absentmindedly, watching the man writing and listening to the music, he started drawing on a piece of paper near the laptop. At first, only some lines that, little by little, turned to a sketch of the man's figure. He drew without looking at the paper, his eyes fixed on the man's back, in his elegant and paused movements when he stopped writing to grab his cup of coffee, take a tiny toast bite, or when he raised his gaze to the ceiling as if looking for inspiration. 

Lestrade looked down at the paper and blinked, surprised. Transported by the music, he wasn't aware he had been drawing. 

The view filled him with bitter and sad memories. When he started working for Alex, he devoted much of his free time to draw, in he even tried to succeed in the art world. He loved drawing since he was a little child. 

When they started dating, Alex encouraged him and even seemed to find it sexy. But when they moved together, he demanded him to stop painting. Lestrade refused to do it. It was his vocation, his dream, what made him happiest. He tried to explain it to Alex, but his boyfriend didn't listen to him. Instead, he complained all the time about Greg's smell of turpentine, about being allergic to watercolours and gouaches, or accused Lestrade of ignoring him and only thinking about his hobby. He got angrier and hurtful until Lestrade gave up and locked his paints in their basement.

He never told Alex how badly he missed it. The painting was his life, something connatural to him, part of him, of his essence. When they passed by a paint store, his heart shrank. But he didn't want to lose Alex. And his husband's angry and hard tug to get him off the display window made it clear he hadn't changed his mind about what he considered an annoying Greg's hobby. And he was right. It was a waste of time. Alex assured, he never would succeed as a painter. There were a lot of more talented ones fighting for success, so what chance could Lestrade have? Alex knew better. 

He felt revolted at the thought of his paintings locked in Alex's basement, remembering how his boyfriend made him ashamed of his passion. But now, looking at his sketch, the craving for drawing grew inside him again, warming his heart a bit. 

He didn't think twice about it. He got dressed and, making a mental calculation of his meagre savings, entered the elevator and went out into the street, almost running from the excitement and went back to the store where he used to buy his stuff when he painted. He loved it. It was small but cosy and had everything an artist could dream. The owner was a nice man, passionate about art. It was pleasant to chat with him while choosing brushes, aquarelles, gouaches, oil paints, or any other material that he could need. Greg thought he had forgotten him, but the man's warm smile confirmed the opposite. 

"You became an early bird," he mocked as Lestrade walked in, "I'm glad to see you again." 

"Me too. I've been... busy and haven't had time to paint and..."

The clerk raised his hands as if to indicate he didn't owe him an explanation. Greg smiled, relieved, and slowly walked around the store, smelling in ecstasy the aroma of the different types of paints, woods, materials..., and with each smell, with each vision, his constrained vocation sprouted again with all its strength. He went from here to there, caressing a brush here, checking colours there, without being able to stop smiling. 

He took a box of coloured pencils, charcoals, a sketch block, and an easel and piled them on the counter. He would have liked to buy many more things, but he couldn't afford them. Buying all of that meant running out of money, but the expense was worth it. He would figure out later how to pay bills.

He walked back to his apartment, dodging pedestrians and almost juggling so he didn't drop anything. When he reached the apartment's building doorway, he left the easel on the wall, opened the door, picked it up, and when he was about to go in, the door closed, locking the easel. Sweating, Greg swore through his teeth, cursing the whole universe. 

The door burst open, and Lestrade fell to the floor, one leg stuck to the trestle. 

"Sorry." 

Greg's heart stopped beating. The one who barked the apology was none other than Sherlock. 

"Let me help you," he said, opening the door but not making any attempt to help him get up or approaching him. Greg just grimaced, trying to be calm, and stood up, praying that Sherlock would come out of the building. He tried to speak, but his voice froze in his throat. 

But Sherlock kept holding the door, impatiently waiting from him. When Lestrade finally crossed it, he picked up the rest of the packets. 

"Thank you," finally Greg mused, gesturing to reach them. 

"I'll go with you. If the door was complicated, I don't want to imagine you in the elevator," he said, in a mocking but firm tone. 

Greg gulped. The elevator. He and Sherlock, together in a tiny cubicle, where the man could easily kill him, and he wouldn't be able to escape. He was going to refuse, but Sherlock's determined gesture deterred him.

The elevator's ride up to his floor took forever, watching Sherlock's every move. But he glued himself to one of the elevator walls, trying to put as much distance as possible between them, concentrated on his phone, completely ignoring him. 

"We are here," Greg foolishly announced when the elevator stopped. He walked to his door, followed by Sherlock carrying the parcels. 

"So we are neighbours," he announced casually. 

"Really?" Greg tried to sound genuinely surprised at this fact. 

"Yes, we live next door, John and I. Do you have the key?"

"The key?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"To your flat. Give it to me, and I will help you get things in." 

"Oh, no, there's no need for it; you helped me enough. I don't want to cause you any more trouble." 

"It's no bother. And so you could finish your drawing," 

Greg gaped. How on earth the did the man know he had been drawing?

"Do you draw too?"

"No." 

Greg blinked, surprised by the abrupt response. He ran into his apartment and slammed the laptop shut, praying that the hitman didn't notice the camera. 

"Put it over here, wherever you want. As you can see, I've only recently moved in, and I still have a lot of work to do". 

"Moves are a drag. I hate them." 

"Do you travel a lot for work?"

"No," 

Sherlock looked around. 

"You recently divorced. Hard divorce trial". 

Greg nodded and lowered his head, baffled and ashamed. How could Sherlock know that? 

"Someone knows you are here? Friends? Family?"

Lestrade shook his head. 

"Would you like to have lunch with us tomorrow?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, totally lost, trying in vain to follow Sherlock.

The hitman sighed impatiently. 

"I hate repeating myself. Would you like to have lunch with us tomorrow? John is a great cooker. And you could use some company".

Greg hesitated. The idea was tempting. He could look for pieces of evidence, know some more about them, but... he didn't know if he could act casual with them knowing they were hired, killers. 

"See you tomorrow, then," he ended without waiting for a response. "At one o'clock in our flat."

Greg remained where he was for a few moments, unable to move, his brain trying to process what had just happened. 

For a second, he wondered how such an observing man didn't notice the camera. Maybe he was too focused on Lestrade's shitty life to see any more. Anyway, he should be more careful: the image of Sherlock and John's living room was visible on the screen when they arrived.

He turned around, rubbing his hair, nervous, excited, and scared. What he was going to do was mad. No, not mad. Stupid. He was going to go straight into the lion's den. But he also thought that if Sherlock were going to kill him, he would have already done it. They were both alone in his apartment. No one saw them getting into the elevator or entering his flat. And probably nobody would notice Sherlock leaving Lestrade's apartment after killing him. 

But this wasn't time to be wimpy, he reminded himself. He was now a private investigator (well, kind of), like Lena Dierre, and she never turned around and ran away when things got dangerous.

Trying to calm himself, he moved the boxes to comfortably place the easel and the drawing blocks in the flat's centre. He opened the folding table that had been leaning against the wall for a month, cleaned it, scrubbing hard the pad to remove a month's worth of dirt, and dried it carefully. 

Sweaty and happy, he put the pencils in a small tray and the compressed black and white charcoal sticks on another one. Finally, he disposed of several paper towels on the table (he would have loved to had artist chamois, but it was too expensive) and the white erasers **.** When he finished, he looked at the table, his hands on his hips, and smiled widely, satisfied. 

Greg sat down on his chair and looked at the sketch of Sherlock sitting at the laptop. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, trying to look at it with a discerning eye. He liked the firmness of the lines, the movement, the details. Not bad. 

He grabbed white charcoal and traced Sherlock's figure's outline to give it luminosity and then blurred it with his middle fingertip. With each movement, he felt his hand came back to life again, recovering forgot skills, the muse flowing through him again. 

Best of all, he didn't feel guilt, as when he was with Alex. 

He managed to make him feel so guilty about painting, so wrong about spending time doing it, that he stopped drawing. It wasn't a decision. One day, he just put his hand on the canvas and... nothing. He couldn't draw anything. Not a line, not a single stroke. Nothing came out of his hand. As if he had lost connection with his art, his muse, his soul. He couldn't paint. When he realised that, something broke inside him. Shredded, he locked all his painting items in the basement. 

The memory twisted his stomach, a deep, dense, and dark anxiety growing in his abdomen, menacing with swallowing him again. 

He shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to block the painful memories, the sadness, the screams, the fear. He swung from front to back, shaking badly, arms crossed over his chest, tears running down his cheeks while a familiar fear crawled inside him, so strong he barely could breathe. Blindly, he stood and stumbled to the kitchen, opened one box of cookies, grabbed some and stuffed them in his mouth, crying bitterly, breathing difficultly through his nose, desperately eating to stop the anxiety, the pain, the fear, the sorrow, the memories. 

He coughed, almost choking while trying to swallow and grabbed another handful of cookies and kept on eating, reliving how Alex managed to make him put aside what made him truly happy, to forego that magic feeling of almost flying while painting or drawing. He threw the pack of cookies on the floor and opened another that he devoured quickly. Then a French fries pack, taking large handfuls and filling his mouth with them, trying to crush the memory of how he left behind that hat feeling of fullness, of flowing while mixing colours, giving brushstrokes, finished paintings, forgetting about time, space, everything. He locked everything in the darkest and deepest corner of his soul and threw away the key. 

Lestrade opened a new bag of cookies, remembering all the times Alex told him he didn't have any talent, sometimes just hinted at it, but most openly. He refused to believe him. He didn't care if he was talented or not. He enjoyed painting. It made him feel alive, feeling the softness of the brushes' wood in his hands, creating his drawings, giving life to them onto the canvases… 

In that dark, hidden corner of his soul where he locked up his vocation, from time to time, something lighted up, calling to him, making him miss how he felt among the brushes. But Greg ignored its siren's songs. It didn't make sense. It was a waste of time, as Alex repeatedly incessantly. He knew better. 

Still chewing, he hid his face in his hands and cried bitterly, wondering how could he get out of that deep, sticky, and dark hole full of sadness that was now his only companion, wondering how to find a reason to keep on. 

He felt disgusted with himself for not being able to stop gobbling, swallowing, chewing, eating. But he knew he wouldn't be able to stop until fear and anxiety vanished, entering into that devilish spiral of craving about eating and self-hating after doing it, which only pushed him to eat more, feeling even worse every time he did it. 

After a while, he started feeling calmer, that black hole in his soul closing, finally being able to escape from that sticky, dense anguish. He leaned his head against the wall and stopped eating. He felt disgusted with himself. Disgusting. Worthless. Alex told him that whenever he found him bingeing, "You disgust me." 

Exhausted, he lay on the floor, his feelings dull with food, ignoring the pain in his stomach about to explode and, still crying softly, he fell asleep, to wake up a few hours later, his body sore from sleeping on the floor.

He stood slowly, feeling sick, his throat and mouth so dry they hurt, his lips cracked. He brushed his lips and his t-shirt to clean the crumbs, ashamed of all the empty bags and packets scattered around him. He took a bottle of water and drank it all at once, 

Trying not to be aware of how many were, he threw all the packets and bags into the bin and covered it. But that didn't make disappear the self-loathe, the desperation, the emptiness, the darkness, the feeling of being lost. 

Slowly, he crawled to the cot, got into it, and covered himself from head to toe with the blankets, wishing he could vanish and disappear forever. 

When he woke again hours later, tired and depressed, he moved to the kitchen to set himself a coffee. It was almost eleven in the morning, and he didn't have too much time to get ready for his meeting for lunch. For a moment, he thought about dismissing it with any excuse, but with nine potential victims, he couldn't do it. He shook his head. It was stupid. He wouldn't be able to unmask the murderers. He wasn't intelligent enough or brave to do it. But he should try for the victims. 

He had a light breakfast, as he always did when he binged on food. Only coffee and a piece of fruit, decided to starve himself to compensate for his fault. 

He took a shower, shaved, and felt a bit better. Then, he went to the closet to find out what to wear. He didn't have much choice but a white and light grey plaid shirt and jeans, the only clothes that fitted him now. 

He fiddled with the camera to make sure it would record his neighbours' apartment. That way, if something happened to him, the police would find the recording when they searched his apartment.

In the image, John was in the kitchen, adding chopped onion and garlic to minced meat on a skillet, then tomato sauce and stirring all the ingredients. In another casserole, he had little squares of pasta boiling. He seemed tired but was humming contently while cooking, from time to time sipping a drink from a glass of red wine, throwing amused looks to Sherlock, who was preparing what looked like a mixture of cheeses on the table he used to write, as the kitchen was too small for the two of them to fit in. Well, preparing wasn't the more accurate term. It was evident he was far less skilled in cooking than John, and he was cursing and grunting to himself while stabbing the cheese with a wooden spoon, trying to mix it.

John giggled. 

"We could have ordered the lunch," Sherlock grunted. 

"Yeah, but it would be less fun. It's all worth it just to see you cooking. An image I hope to keep forever in my mind," John scoffed.

"It's not the first time I cook." 

"Defrosting in the microwave is not cooking." 

"Who says that?"

"Me." 

Sherlock snorted. 

"I didn't know I was married to the president of the James Beard Foundation." 

John looked at him, surprised. 

"Do you know what the James Beard Foundation is?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I watch with you that soporifics cooking shows that you like so much." 

"Since you do nothing but criticise them, I didn't think that you would keep any data." 

Sherlock looked at him with a scowl. 

"I get all the data, John." 

"I know, just teasing you. I didn't think there was room in your Mind Palace for anything as prosaic as cooking. Although, looking at what you are doing to the poor cheese, there really isn't". 

John took the bowl of stabbed cheese and assembled the lasagne layers on an oven pan. He put it in the oven and dried his hands on a cloth. 

"Let's get dressed. It's almost one o'clock. All set?" 

Sherlock nodded, and both disappeared into the bedroom. 

An hour later, Lestrade went out of his apartment, took a deep breath, and raised his hand to knock on his neighbour's door. He stopped, biting his lower lip, insecure, wondering if all that wouldn't be crazy. 

"Calm down," he said to himself, "Breath. They have no idea that you are watching them or that you have listened to them. You have that advantage. It will simply be a meal between neighbours, and then you will put them in jail. Everything will be okay." 

He took several deep breaths repeating that mantra, trying to ignore how vulnerable he felt. After a few minutes, he knocked on the door. 

Sherlock opened it, staring at him, and Lestrade felt his legs wobble. With his scowl, the man was scary. His pronounced cheekbones, pale skin, and black curly hair gave him a nocturnal creature air that didn't help Greg feel calmer.

"It's not nice to have guests waiting at the door," John said in a playful tone. 

Sherlock just stood back and gave him room to pass, getting as far away from him as possible. Once Greg was inside, Sherlock's gaze shifted from John to Greg. 

John walked next to him and shook his hand. 

"I'm John, nice to meet you. Please, make yourself at home". 

"I'm Greg. Nice to meet you too," he shook John's hand firmly, relieved.

He liked John immediately. He seemed much friendlier, or at least, much less dangerous, the short blond hair, the bright and warm blue eyes, the friendly smile. He and Sherlock looked like yin and yang. He thought John's face was familiar to him for a moment, but assumed that it was because he saw him yesterday through the camera.

"Food will be ready in ten minutes. Sherlock, open the wine and pour him a glass." 

Greg was amused by the easy way John handled Sherlock. He had the feeling that John was the only person who could do it. When Lestrade entered, he noticed a shadow of distrust crossing Sherlock's eyes. Although he had invited him, it was clear that he did not like strangers, and because of his rude and almost unpleasant manners, neither people in general. 

Sherlock poured him a glass and gestured him to sit on the couch. Lestrade took a sip, looking around the flat, surprised once again at how innocent it seemed. Absorbed in his task, he did not notice the almost imperceptible nod that Sherlock made to John, who slowly approached Sherlock so that the two of them stood in front of him.

John smiled for a second. Then his face became stony, threatening, even more so when Sherlock's gaze turned icy. 

"Who the hell are you, and why are you spying on us?" John growled, menacingly. 

Lestrade panicked. At no time did he suspect they discovered him. His brain stopped, and he looked at them, threatened. 

"Answer the question," ordered Sherlock in the same menacing tone. 

Lestrade opened his mouth, but no sound came of it. Sherlock tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, and headed for the bedroom. 

"For your own sake, tell us who you are. And don't lie to us," advised John. 

"I'm… Greg… Greg Lestrade". 

"Okay, Greg Lestrade. And why are you spying on us? Who are you working for?"

"No,…, nobody". 

"Yeah, sure." 

Sherlock came out of the bedroom, carrying a gun. Without hesitating, he rested the barrel on Lestrade's forehead, who raised his trembling hands, closed his eyes, and shrank in the couch. 

"Please, don't shoot me," he begged.

"Do you work for Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. 

"I… I don't know any… Moriarty," he whispered.

"So, who are you working for?"

Greg shook his head, silently praying for it to end. 

"Speak up!" angrily shouted John, making him jump on the couch. 

Greg hesitated for a few thousandths of a second, but he had no other way out.

"I... I know you are planning to kill... nine people. I overheard you the other night. I saw your list. Nobody sent me. I don't work for anybody. I swear", he replied shakily, gulping for air, "But you won't kill them. New Scotland Yard knows everything", he lied. "They will be here in a few minutes." 

Sherlock and John looked at each other. 

"Our list?" asked John frowning.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in amazement. 

"Phoebe King, Anne Adam, Emily Evans, Chrissy George…" he listed, "Are these the names on the list? That's why you were spying on us?" 

Greg nodded. 

"No one sent you, then?"

He vehemently shook his head again, closing his eyes even tighter. He had been a fool and a coward, telling them everything he knew in the face of the first threat. 

"And you wanted to save them?" John asked, disbelief mixed with admiration in his tone. 

Greg nodded, looking at him, surprised by his tone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John smiled, his face relaxing. 

"That people are not in danger. We are not plotting any murder. Those people are not real, are novel characters. Sherlock…"

"I'm a ghostwriter" he cut him quickly, though Lestrade didn't miss the look John gave him, which Sherlock openly dismissed.

"We are sorry for having frightened you," John apologised. He moved to the kitchen and gave a glass of water to a still shaking Greg that he drank avidly. 

"Better?" John asked, a bit worried. 

Greg nodded weakly without really knowing what to think.

"He doesn't believe us," Sherlock said, "he's wondering if we're not fooling him."

Now Lestrade was firmly convinced that he could read minds. The ghostwriter crossed the living room, grabbed a newspaper, and gave it to him.

"Page five," he grunted.

Greg tried to open it, but his hands shook so hard he couldn't look for the page. John helped him. 

Lestrade frowned. There was a photograph of John, wearing a blue surgeon uniform. It was an interview referring to a very delicate brain surgery he practised yesterday, while the patient, a woman, was playing the violin. She, one of the best violinists in the world, had a brain tumour and, due to the brain area where it was located, there were great possibilities she could never be able to play again. John extirpated it, and she could keep on playing the violin as always. 

" _You are an evil man, John Watson. And she is a fortunate woman_ ," Greg remembered Sherlock saying yesterday morning. 

"John is the best neurosurgeon in the whole world," said Sherlock proudly. 

"Don't exaggerate, love, there are a lot better than me," he replied, blushing but delighted. 

"Don't listen to him. He is". 

Greg gaped. Now he knew why John's face was familiar to him. 

"I saw an article about you and that therapy for Parkinson when you put something in people's brain." he snapped his fingers, trying to remember the name.

John smiled. 

"Deep Brain Stimulation. We implant tiny electrodes in the brain that deliver constant but weak electric current. This way, we can eliminate symptoms of patients with Parkinson, essential tremor, or Tourette syndrome".

"I told you. The better neurosurgeon in the world".

Greg looked at them, down and ashamed. He felt stupid, and both men should think he was a real idiot or a madman. 

"I'm sorry for spying on you. I've been an idiot and..."

"No, it's us who have to apologise," John interrupted him. "You meant well, wanted to save people's lives, which is very brave on you. But it's not the first time we have paparazzi and people trying to invade our private life. When we saw the camera, we thought you were one of those". 

"But it is clear you are not. Sorry about the gun, though your life wasn't at risk at any time," Sherlock smirked, pressing the gun's trigger. A little flame came from the end of the barrel.

John shook his head. 

"He loves it."

"It seems real." gasped Lestrade.

"It's an authentic gun, modified to a lighter. A present for…, one of the writers to whom I write for. A fan of him, a gun shop's owner, made it especially for him and he gave to me".

Greg nodded, relieved, though it would take a while to get the scare out of his body. 

However, a little voice in the back of his head told him that something was not right about the whole thing. It was true that being such a famous neurosurgeon, John would want to preserve his intimacy, but they were too menacing for being only worried about paparazzi. And who the hell was… Moriarty? 

Anyway, he decided it was better not to ask any more questions. However friendly they seemed now, the truth was that they had scared him to death, and if it came to it, it was clear that they would not hesitate to do so again. 

"Well… I" he stood, his legs still a bit wobbling, "I'll go back to my apartment now." 

"The invitation to lunch still stands. It's the least we can do to apologise for scaring you". 

Lestrade hesitated. He felt the same sympathy for John again as when he came into the house. He had found him honest and kind, and he liked him. Sherlock was still a bit scary, but it seemed to him that as long as John was quiet, he would be quiet too. And, the idea of returning to the solitude of his flat did not appeal to him at all. During that couple of days, both men had become part of his life (in a strange way), but he didn't want to give up the only thing that seemed to have given his life meaning lately, especially after last night.

John looked at Sherlock. 

"Yes, stay." 

Lestrade nodded, and John gave him back his glass of wine. 

"I'm going to take the lasagne from the oven. Could you both set the table?"

They nodded, and John headed to the kitchen. Lestrade was still a bit baffled by the transformation suffered by both men as if nothing had happened.

"Did you finish your drawing?" asked Sherlock, removing books and papers from the table and spreading a tablecloth over it.

"No… I… " he felt a bit embarrassed

"That's okay." 

"So, you are writing a thriller now?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"I'm reading one now."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Yeah, I'm hooked. I can't wait to keep reading. I love the author's style and how he develops the plot, the characters, and the storytelling; it's great, and the best I've ever read. The title is The hidden ring. Do you know it?" 

Sherlock tensed up, and Lestrade could see his knuckles turning white, holding the glass while John, in the kitchen, turned to him for a moment, to focus back on the salad he was preparing. 

"I'm glad you like it," Sherlock muttered, looking at John like a shipwrecked man would look at a lifeguard. 

"It's from W. Scott, you surely know him, the Lena Dierre's saga author. He is the best thriller's author in the world." Greg hesitated, fledgeling, "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't say that." 

"Why?" Sherlock barked in a sharper tone than usual. John scowled at him.

"My ex-husband had a writer friend. He wasn't… very successful. Every time I brought up the name of a successful author, he cursed and insulted them. And so did his friends, who were also unsuccessful". 

"Don't worry, Sherlock won't get mad at that," John intervened, leaving the lasagne on the table.

The writer gave him a warning look.

"So you like W. Scott's books?" asked John, casting a mocking glance at Sherlock.

Greg nodded enthusiastically. 

"John!" protested the writer. 

Greg looked at them alternately. 

"Did I do something inconvenient?" 

"No, don't worry about it. It's all right," 

"Have you exhibited paintings?" Sherlock's effort to change the subject was evident. 

"No, I…. haven't painted for a long time," he replied sadly, "and even if I did, no one would have an interest in my paintings." 

"Well, you don't get to decide that. It's up to the people. And if you like doing it, the rest does not matter. People don't matter." 

"Yes, it can be, but when you create something, you know whether it's good. Anyway, I'm starting again now. I don't have any finished paintings; maybe I won't finish this one either. I don't know; my life is a bit of a mess right now". 

He ran his finger over the rim of the glass in silence. 

"I think that's why I feel so identified with one of the protagonists of " _The hidden ring_ ," he continued in a slightly duller tone."Her life changed overnight, everything is a disaster, and she discovered everything she lived was a lie, that his partner was not who he said he was. Her reflections resonate deeply within me. I would even say that they are helping me to overcome my break-up".

"So you think the character conveys well with the chaos you are in now?" asked Sherlock, watching him intently. 

Greg nodded and frowned. 

"Yes, as I said, it's amazing to get inside her head, accompany the protagonist in her grieving process, in her disbelief and, through her struggle to uncover the truth. And I think that the most beautiful thing is that she doesn't do it for money, pride, or anything like that, but for love. It's so real that it helps any reader who's going through a similar situation. And even if it's not. The character has something that engages you, that makes you identify with her and do not hesitate to accompany her in his research". 

He stopped for a second. 

"It is what I like most about his novels. They are not ordinary thrillers. Besides fighting crime, their protagonists fight their demons, overcome their fears, and are much more than a thriller. W. Scott is brilliant". 

"Is that the first of his books you read?" John sat on the arm of the couch next to Sherlock and winked affectionately at him. 

"Oh, no. I have read all his books. He is one of the few authors I can't wait for his book to come out in a pocketbook, so I buy it straight out in hardcover." 

"Don't you read in eBooks?"

"Yes, I used to, but... now, since I feel... I don't know, a little lonely, I appreciate the book's physical company, the touch, the smell... it's a blast." 

And then the miracle happened. Sherlock looked at him and smiled, truly smiled for the first time, which allowed Lestrade to relax in his seat finally. 

"Shall we eat?" John asked, getting up and heading for the table. The other two followed him. 

"You talk about books with great passion," observed John, looking at his husband sideways. 

"I love to read. I always read a lot until... well until I met my ex-husband. He… kind of hated seeing me reading, got mad when he saw me with a book in my hands, I don't know why". 

"Because he is an asshole," Sherlock sneered. 

"Sherlock..."

"No, he's right. A complete asshole" smiled Lestrade. "Wow, it's comforting to hear that from someone." 

"A toast to the asshole, then," John mocked, raising his glass. 

"Here's to the asshole," the three of them said in chorus, clinking their glasses.

Greg burst out laughing, feeling liberated and light as a child. 

"I'm sorry," he apologised when he finished laughing. "You must think I'm the jerk one." 

"Someone who loves books is never an idiot," Sherlock affirmed. 

"Amen to that," replied John, and the three toasted once more, to keep on eating and chatting. 

Sherlock and John proved to be excellent conversationalists, witty and funny, making him laugh for the first time in weeks. Much more, if he was honest.

When they went out with Alex and his friends, Lestrade used to keep his mouth shut or be very careful about what he said. Otherwise, his husband would tell him that what he had just said was silly or that he had no idea what was being talked about, or after the meal, he reproached Lestrade for embarrassing him in front of his friends.

But there, with Sherlock and John, he felt free to say everything he wanted. When finished, Greg and John sat on the couch and Sherlock in a chair near to John. 

"It was all delicious," Greg praised. 

"John's a great cook," agreed Sherlock. 

"No, no, some things I'm good at, that's all, but I'm no chef. But I like cooking. It helps me to relax after long surgeries like yesterday."

Lestrade looked at him. 

"Okay, you have questions," Sherlock said, and John bit his lower lip to keep from laughing at Lestrade's alarmed face. Then nodded, encouraging him to ask. 

"I hope I'm not disturbing you or making you uncomfortable, but... being you a famous neurosurgeon, what are you doing in this building? I mean... not bad, but…. This is the kind of shithole that only those who can't afford anything else come to… Excuse me. It's none of my business. Wine guilt." 

"No, don't worry about it. It's understandable. Living here is temporary. We are renovating our house, and since it's going to take a while, we decided to come here. We invested a lot in the renovation, so we don't have much left to spend on rent, and that's why we are here".

Lestrade nodded. That explained it. 

John checked his watch. 

"I'm sorry, but we have an appointment we cannot postpone," he said, standing up. Sherlock nodded, but it was clear that, whatever the appointment was, he wasn't too keen on it.

"It's okay. I don't want to abuse your hospitality." Lestrade imitated him

"You haven't. And in case you need something, you know where we are." 

"Thank you very much; I appreciate it."

"Don't forget to remove the camera," Sherlock reminded him. 

Greg blushed. 

"I will," he assured. 

They shook hands, and Lestrade went back to his apartment, feeling a bit better with himself. Still, a bit bewildered by how fast the events had gone, but full of energy. He opened his laptop, switched off the camera, and took it out of the wall hole. 

Then he cleaned a small shelf nailed to one of the walls. From the biggest box, he took out all his books one by one, dusted them off, and placed them on the self. 

He didn't have many: only the seven W. Scott's books and a few other thrillers and fantasy novels. One day, when he got home from work, Lestrade found that Alex threw almost all of them into the paper recycling bin. he got upset, and Alex told him that if he loved him, he would throw away even the few he had left, stored in a cabinet in the hallway. 

The argument raised until Greg gave up. Every time Alex got angry, he went for days without speaking to him, enveloped in sullen and cold silence. Or, if he talked, it was just to make sour comments about how stubborn he was, how difficult, how much he made him suffer - until Greg, with the guilt of drowning him as such a disastrous boyfriend, asked him to forgive him, crying. In a blink of an eye, Alex turned again to be his loving husband, and Lestrade was left alone with his grief. 

But, that time, he didn't throw the books away. He lied to Alex and put them in a suitcase that he hid in the garage.

When he finished, he backed off, looking at his work with pride. The books' spines shone and gave a more homely touch to the floor, making it a little more his own. 

He looked in another box, where he kept small pictures of dog puppies in funny attitudes. He loved the puppies' bright eyes, their pink tongues, their heads bowed in a hesitant position as if trying to understand the human in front of them better. 

Of course, Alex thought they were ridiculous, so he had to hide them in a drawer.

He hung three pictures on each wall and looked around, satisfied with himself, and with the idea of, somehow, being defying Alex. He felt good looking at those little faces, the cold and inhospitable apartment finally turning into a place that felt more like him. Maybe life finally started to smile at him at last. 

His phone buzzed. Lestrade frowned at the unknown number and pressed the green key. 

"Gregory Lestrade?" asked a man's sharp and imperative voice.

He froze. The only people who called him Gregory were Alex's lawyers. That way of addressing him did not bode well. He moved his thumb to end the call. 

"Don't even dream of pressing that button" the tone was calm, but it made clear the man was used to having his orders obeyed. Greg gulped, looking around, wondering how the hell he knew that. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I would like to have a few words with you; I am saying I would like, just as a matter of courtesy. A car is waiting for you. Go downstairs and get in the car. Now". 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The surgery of the woman playing the violin while her brain was being operated on is real. It was performed at King's College Hospital in London.
> 
> The music Sherlock is listening to while writing is the
> 
> [Flower Duet ](https://youtu.be/JYgzaNmI9vE)
> 
> From the opera Lakmé by Leo Delibes. It's one of my favourite pieces I listen to while I'm writing, and I thought Sherlock would like it too.


	5. Mycroft Holmes

Lestrade looked on in amazement at the man sitting in front of him in the luxury sedan. If Sherlock was some kind of rebellion icon, with his long curly hair, t-shirts and black jeans, his brother was the opposite. He wore an impeccable three-piece suit, his perfectly knotted tie, his dark straight hair, already a little thin on the forehead, combed down to the smallest detail... even his posture, the right leg crossed over the left, the head slightly tilted, the right eyebrow raised, was perfect. And menacing.

In fact, the only thing those two brothers seemed to share was that look capable of piercing your skull and reading all your secrets. But Mycroft Holmes' look had something else. A mute warning about what would happen if you didn't follow his words to the letter.

In short, the man had something that made Lestrade's hair stand on end. But which, at the same time, he found irresistibly attractive.

At least that's what he thought during the long minutes he was under the eldest Holmes' silent scrutiny, his gaze running over every inch of Lestrade's figure, storing data, watching, as he struggled with the urge to get out of the car, something that would clearly be a mistake.

"It's all right," he said at last in a less deep voice than his brother's, but which inspired even more fear than his look "I take your case".

"My case?"

"Like my brother, I hate to repeat myself. If we are going to work together, you must take this into account. Tomorrow, I want a complete list of your ex-husband's properties, his work, leisure time activities and any other details you remember that might be useful".

Lestrade shook his head, not understanding anything. The man rolled his eyes, something similar to amusement in the back of his eyes.

"We are going to appeal your divorce sentence. Although it is clear that you need more help than my brother thinks. He often overlooks such details".

Lestrade gaped.

"Re... appeal? I appreciate it, but... I don't have enough money to pay you," he replied, thinking that he would never be able to get it together in a lifetime. The suit alone must cost more than he earned in a year working for Alex.

"Money is not a problem".

"That's what everyone who has it says. Besides, I do not need to appeal the sentence. I don't want to see Alex again; I don't want anything from him... no..."

"It's not about what you want or not. It's about what you need, you deserve and about what's right. It's about the fact that your ex-husband used every legal trick in the book to come after you, harassed you drowning you in lawsuits and sank you".

"He didn't do it to sink me; he was angry...".

The man sighed, with the air of one who is tired of explaining something to a kid, but without adding anything else.

"Besides, how do you know that? What are you and Sherlock, some kind of alien race able of reading minds?"

Mycroft watched him for a few moments with a look that Lestrade could not define, but which, for a moment, seemed to him to harbour certain bewilderment, of which Lestrade cannot help but be proud. He was sure that few people managed to do so.

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it. He took a card out of his jacket pocket.

"Tomorrow at nine o'clock. I will be waiting for you".

"To go where?"

"To meet an idiot".

"And why would I want to go to see an idiot with you?"

Lestrade himself was amazed at his audacity. For a moment he feared that the man would get angry with him and kick him out of the car, but instead, he raised his left lip's corner, probably the closest thing to a smile that the man used to show.

"Be on time. At nine o'clock. And don't forget to bring what I asked for".

"I haven't said yes".

"You have said it, although you don't know it yet".

As if responding to a silent order, the driver got out of the car and opened the car door, waiting for Lestrade to come out. He looked at Mycroft, who was concentrated on his iPad, ignoring him completely.

He shrugged and got out of the car, thanking the driver, who closed the door and got behind the wheel, while Greg stood on the pavement watching the car drive away, taking away the most curious character he had ever met, but, for some reason, he had liked him.

Happy and disconcerted, he put his hands in his pockets and, whistling, went up to the flat.

Once there, he sat down at the table, picked up paper and pen and made a list of everything Mycroft asked for, though he couldn't see the point. Nothing could be done against Alex's skilled and merciless battalion of lawyers.

He nibbled at the tip of the pen, thinking, trying to remember all the details, when he heard a muffled groan. He sharpened his ear and listened to another. He blushed when he realized that it was a moan of pleasure coming from Sherlock and John's flat.

He bit his lower lip in thought, regretting not having the camera yet. He never considered himself a voyeur, but he couldn't deny he was curious to see John and Sherlock having sex, especially with Sherlock being such a seemingly physically detached guy.

He looked towards the hole in the wall, undecided. He promised himself to cover it up, but the call from Sherlock's brother made him change his plans but decided not to look through it. He wouldn't want to have an angry Mycroft in front of him because he had been spying on his brother while he was having sex.

A new, louder moan, accompanied by a hissing sound, made him change his mind. Slowly, he walked up to the hole and looked through it.

Sherlock and John were in the dining room. John, sitting on a padded blanket on the floor, with his legs crossed in the lotus position, held the writer by the waist while he, with his legs wrapped around John's torso, descended slowly on his cock, both looking at each other's eyes.

From time to time, the doctor stopped Sherlock's advance, so that he could adjust to his cock, while they kissed slowly, with delight, each exploring the other's mouth, feeling, recognizing and enjoying each other, without any struggle or rush, until Sherlock sat on John's muscular thighs, biting his lips to drown out a moan.

They remained like this for a few moments, embracing each other, his foreheads together. When Sherlock nodded, John powerfully started rocking his hips, slowly thrusting into Sherlock, as the writer arched his back and then pulled his torso back together with John's.

They were painting in each other's mouth, the writer from time to time biting his lower lip, muffling a moan. The doctor grabbed his hair, softly pulling it, so the writer pulled his head back, and thus be able to kiss his neck, making the writer shudder.

More than a voyeur, Lestrade felt that he was invading an intimate, emotional moment. With that soft and slow sex, undulating movements of their bodies, looking at each other when they didn't close their eyes of pleasure, both were expressing how much they loved each other, as if, besides their bodies, they were connecting their souls.

John ran his hands up and down the writer's scarred back, just a touch with the tips of his fingers, which made him shiver, soft caresses full of love, while Sherlock held on to John's back and his hair tightly, fully embracing each other while the neurosurgeon slowly rocked inside Sherlock.

From time to time, his cock inside Sherlock, John stopped, kissing him, grinding back and forth, making small movements. By the writer's shivers and moans, John's cock was making pressure on his prostate, sending pleasure waves that run through Sherlock's body from toes to head with every movement.

"You are so gorgeous" whispered John in Sherlock's lips.

The writer blushed and shook his head, not fully believing John's words, who smiled, luring him to kiss him, spinning his hips, eliciting a moaned gasp from Sherlock's lips, both breathing in synchronization, as John kept with slow rocking and grinding movements that were driving the writer crazy with pleasure.

Lestrade was excited but also moved by the deep connection between them, making even more visible that special something that had seemed to him during the meal.

"You… you are killing me…….." panted Sherlock.

John chuckled. For every answer, he took Sherlock's hands and gently placed them on the floor behind him, so that the writer backed away, then searched between their bodies, took Sherlock's cock and started stroking him at the same low pace he was moving his hips.

Sherlock kind of gurgled, threw back his head, his body trembling, as John continued slowly stroking him, occasionally running his thumb over the tip of Sherlock's cock.

"Oh, God, John," he said, moving forwards to embrace and kiss John again.

"How many times do you want to come? Two, four, six……?" smugly teased the neurosurgeon, making Sherlock whining.

He sped up a bit his stroking but kept on with the slow penetration, both bodies sensually rocking together, both men gasping in pleasure in each other's mouth, Sherlock whining, John softly grunting.

Sherlock didn't answer, and John smiled, his hands running through the writer's body.

It was then when Lestrade noticed that, from time to time, the writer flinched. His body gave a little jolt under John's caresses, who instantly moved his hands out from Sherlock, leaving them millimetres away from his skin without touching him, stopping his hips movements. In contrast, the writer closed his eyes and breathed hard for a few moments. 

After a slight nod from Sherlock, John placed his hands again on the writer's body, gently caressing him, reassuming his slow thrusting inside Sherlock.

At other times, the writer grabbed the neurosurgeon's hands, pulling them away from his body. The doctor let himself go, slowing his thrusting inside him, both just holding his hands, until Sherlock let go of John's hands and held him tightly, letting himself be caressed again, as John reassumed his thrusting, always with soft, slow movements.

And, which Lestrade found even more curious, John touched and caressed every part of Sherlock's body but his nape. His hands moved from grabbing his hair, his head, avoiding his nape, to his shoulders, and when he caresses his back from his ass, he stopped between his blades, never caressing it.

John teased again Sherlock's cock tip, and when he arched his back, the neurosurgeon bowed his head and licked one of the writer's nipples, gently nibbling it. Sherlock tensed and came with a loud moan.

John kept stroking him through his orgasm, but without increased his hips rhythm, in a long, torturously slow pace, enjoying the moaning and shuddering of Sherlock's body. When he opened his eyes, John kissed him, smiling through the kiss.

"Do you need to stop?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise. Stopping at that point would be really frustrating for John, who had not come yet. But it was clear that he was willing to do so if the writer asked him to.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Good?" John gently whispered.

The writer nodded and, kissing him back, rotated his hips, making John moan in pleasure.

Lestrade was fascinated by the tenderness shown by John, studying Sherlock's face at all times, pending his slightest reaction; by how Sherlock, in turn, gave himself totally to John, trusting him blindly, letting himself going and doing. Somehow, Lestrade realized he felt cherished, loved and safe, while John kissed him eagerly, softly biting his lower lip, his hands grabbing Sherlock's slim waist and raising him up and down, the writer's legs quivering around John's body.

"I love you" mused Sherlock in John's ear, like revealing a secret.

"I love you too, gorgeous" John whispered, speeding up with his hips, looking questioningly at Sherlock.

"More" the writer mewled, as their foreheads touched.

John improved the path, one hand on the floor as a support point, which allowed him to thrust faster and harder inside Sherlock, reaching again for his member, stroking it, both bodies covered in sweat, both men smiling, floating in the waves of blissful pleasure, bodies and souls making love at the same time.

"John" Sherlock whined "I…."

John grinned in his kiss.

"I got you, beautiful" he whispered, and Sherlock shivered.

Lestrade realized then that, thought being handsome and attractive, Sherlock wasn't used to praises. Instead, he blushed, lowered his head and shook it awkwardly, as if it was difficult for him to believe it. John grabbed him by the chin and made him raise it, kissing him.

"Yes, you, my perfect madman".

"I…." Sherlock started.

Whatever he was going to say was choked off by a loud moan as John increasing the pumping of his swollen cock. Sherlock shuddered, threw his head back, and came, his cries muffled by John kisses, who, with a low groan came inside Sherlock, thrusting inside him through their orgasm, until their body relaxed, both gulping to catch their breath, both holding their hands tightly, losing themselves in each other's eyes.

"You… you are awesome, John Watson" smiled Sherlock when he finally was able to speak.

"I know".

Both chuckled, and Lestrade walked away from the wall. He moved to the cot and began to masturbate slowly, sensuously, just as John and Sherlock had made love, the image of Mycroft's face suddenly floating on his head as he came, biting into a towel to prevent them from hearing his moans.

******

Next morning, Lestrade woke up, took a shower, and wondered what to have for breakfast when someone knocked at his door. He looked at his watch, surprised. There was still an hour to go before his appointment with Mycroft. He opened the door and found John on the other side.

"Mycroft said you should have a proper breakfast. Come and have it with us. You will need strength if you're going to work with him" he smiled.

"How on earth…?"

"Don't worry, you will get accustomed to that", the neurosurgeon joked.

His smile faded a bit, though his tone was still friendly and a bit playful.

"By the way, although I would be lying if I told you that sex in public bothers me, I want that hole in the wall blocked today, you know what I'm talking about".

Giving a couple of friendly but strong pats on his arm, he headed for the flat, followed by a totally blushed, abashed Lestrade.

In there, Sherlock had set a plate with toasts aside and was drinking coffee and writing.

"Thank you for talking to your brother, Sherlock".

The writer made an indefinable gesture without taking his eyes off the screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard with dizzying speed.

"Wait a couple of days. I'm sure you won't thank me then".

Lestrade looked at him, alarmed.

"What he means is that you will discover that work capacity is a different term for the Holmes and the rest of the mortals" clarified John, taking the laptop out of Sherlock's hands and slamming it shut.

"John, don't be ridiculous" protested Sherlock trying to grab it.

"First of all, this is my laptop. Second, you have to eat" he said, pushing the plate towards him, and inviting Lestrade to sit down with a gesture, and then putting in front of him a plate with scrambled eggs, beans, and bringing another one for him.

"Fuck John, everything I wrote yesterday is a worthless shit, and just now I was inspired" Sherlock groaned.

"You never write worthless shit. And you have to eat, or I will phone Mycroft."

Greg ate, fascinated by the conversation, looking at one and the other alternately.

Sherlock sulked and dropped his toast.

"No," warned the neurosurgeon, gesturing to him to keep eating.

Sherlock sulked even more, and John raised his eyebrows in a warning gesture. The writer sighed and kept on eating. Greg bit his lips to hide a smile as he watched John do the same. He was still amazed at Sherlock's docility to the neurosurgeon.

"Start another book. You have a lot of drafts in your drawer."

"I don't have time. I have only four months before giving it to Molly. And not only do I have to write it, but also to correct it..."

"You have got time. When you find inspiration, you are the fastest."

Sherlock sighed and wrinkled his nose. John smiled tenderly, so Lestrade deduced he liked that gesture, and he knew why: it was tender, lovely, childish, and comical in the same way.

Molly must be the writer he was writing for, then. Lestrade mentally reviewed all the female thriller authors he knew, but none came to mind, although she might have published under a pseudonym.

"I feel bad for you" muttered Sherlock to John.

Lestrade looked at him, surprised.

"Once a novel inspires him, he spends his days writing tirelessly. He can finish it in a fortnight," explained John "But don't worry about me. Besides, it even suits me. I have a lot of surgeries scheduled, and I'll be spending a lot of time in the O.R. I won't bother you."

"You never bother me,"

Sherlock pushed the half-filled plate away.

"No, no, no way," protested John, "Remember what happened with the last novel. Your blood tests were a disaster; you were malnourished. And" he pointed the writer with his fork "You promised me this time would be different."

"Eating slows down my creative process," the writer grumbled.

"Then write slowly. You need to eat for that brilliant writer's brain of yours to function properly, and for your body to function even better. I don't want you to faint again".

Sherlock lowered his head, regretful, and Lestrade felt sorry for him. From John's tone, he was pretty worried, and the writer didn't want him to concern him further. 

"So, if you don't finish your breakfast, no laptop for a week".

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You won't dare."

"Try me."

The writer wrinkled his nose again, in a pout that Greg could only describe as charming. He had to bite his lips to keep from laughing when the writer grabbed his toast again, muttering for himself. Clearly, the neurosurgeon was willing to make good on his threat, and Sherlock knew it.

Greg watched them silently.

At first glance, it may seem that John was a bossy man trying to impose his will on Sherlock, or that Sherlock was acting like a rebellious and difficult child just to test John's nerves.

But Lestrade sensed something more subtle in that exchange, especially in Sherlock, as if it were a kind of game between them.

The writer liked it when John took his laptop away from him or made him eat his breakfast. But not out of submission, fear or docility, but because, through those gestures and words, he felt cared, knowing the neurosurgeon watched over him as if to prevent him from suffering the slightest harm, whether it was from his lack of care for himself or the outside.

It was as if no one had ever cared for Sherlock like that before, for whether he ate or not, whether he was well or not..., but something was wrong with all that because something told him that Mycroft wouldn't neglect his little brother like that.

On the contrary, he seemed like the kind of man who was governed by rules and regulations, who tried to keep control over everything. Yet it was clear from the writer's comment to him upon arrival that their relationship was not overly good.

Although Sherlock didn't hesitate to come to him, which he would not have done if he really detested him so much. That man was as difficult a puzzle to solve as any thriller.

Lost in thought, he reached out for another piece of toast, unaware that Sherlock was doing the same, brushing against his hand unwillingly.

With a sudden and rapid movement, the writer moved his hand away when he felt Lestrade's touch as if he were burning. He remained still and rigid, not moving, breathing heavily.

It took Lestrade's brain a few seconds to realize that Sherlock was bordering on panic. He went to put his hand on his arm to calm him down, but John stopped him, shaking his head.

"Sherlock, why don't you go to the bedroom for a moment?" John's voice was soft and reassuring, almost like a murmur. "Call me if you need me".

The writer looked at him, blinked a couple of times, nodded weakly and disappeared into the room, closing the door behind him.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't want..." muttered Lestrade.

"No, no, don't worry, it's not your fault. I should have warned you. Sherlock suffers from haphephobia. This is why he reacted that way. He just needs a little time."

"Haphe… what?"

"Haphephobia, fear of being touched. He feels a paralyzing fear when someone touches him".

Greg raised his eyebrows, blankly.

John shook his head.

"For people who have haphephobia, a simple touch can feel overwhelming or painful. They feel pain or burning when they are touched, mixed with panic; this is why he froze up".

Lestrade then understood why Sherlock didn't help him get up when he fell with his easel on the door, or he walked away from it as much as he could, or why John had to stop caressing him during sex. 

"Why doesn't he say it?"

John's gesture became hard.

"People are a bit stupid sometimes, and think some phobias are funny. Before, when Sherlock told someone that he had a phobia to be touched or didn't stand physical contact, people intentionally touched him, poking or grabbing him. They didn't realize it was traumatic for him, that they could provoke him a panic attack. So he simply decided to stay apart from people and don't say anything".

Greg nodded, trying to figure out a life without being touched, embraced or caressed, terrified by someone approaching you even for only shaking your hand, by something as inherent to human beings as physical contact.

John nodded, guessing his thoughts.

"It's tough. People with haphephobia are aware that is irrational, but can't avoid it. And people usually don't understand it; they feel rejected when they avoid physical contact with them. It interferes in every aspect of their life: family, friends, work…, this is why they usually feel lonely and live isolated. Not many people are willing to make an effort to understand them."

Both looked at Sherlock, who, still a bit pale, but calmer, came back from the room. John smiled at him, conveying confidence. The writer sat back in the chair, next to John, as far from Greg as possible.

"I'm sorry" he mused, crestfallen, embarrassed.

"No, Sherlock. Remember what Anthea told you. There is nothing to apologize for, nor to feel ashamed of. I explained it to Greg, and he understood perfectly."

Lestrade nodded.

Sherlock smiled weakly, grateful. John stretched out his hand on the table with his back to the wood. Sherlock brought his hand, still a little shaky, inches from John's, without touching it. Yet, even without touching each other, Lestrade could feel the closeness, the gesture's intimacy, transformed almost into a physical caress.

Without saying anything, so as not to break the spell, Lestrade got up and went to his flat. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair and made sure he was presentable. He took the notes from the day before and went down to the street.

In front of the doorway, Mycroft was already waiting for him, but this time at the wheel of a luxurious Tesla.

He smiled at the sight of Lestrade (or at least made a pretence of it, he couldn't be sure. Mycroft didn't gesture too much) and the passenger door opened slowly. Lestrade sat down on the seat and inhaled the smell of leather.

"The seatbelt" ordered Mycroft as all greetings, then he walked into the traffic.

Being usually so sensitive to the others' rejection, even if it was only apparent. Lestrade was surprised not to feel hurt or rejected by Mycroft's being so parsimonious in words. Somehow, in those two words, Sherlock's brother managed to convey a certain affability that reassured him.

He smiled to himself, looking out the window. He couldn't deny he liked the guy, as unconventional as Sherlock.

A few minutes later, Mycroft put on his indicator, and they stopped in front of a beautiful four-storey building. At the door, a woman was waiting for them. She was dark, thin, short and petite, with affable and smiling features. She smiled and got into the back seat of the car.

"Molly, this is Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock and John's neighbour I told you about".

"Molly Hopper," smiled the woman, shaking hands with Lestrade when he turned to her. So that was the woman Sherlock was writing for.

"So will get set the presentation ready today", said Molly, rummaging in her rucksack. She was a very nervous woman, always doing anything.

Mycroft nodded.

"Philip is waiting for us,"

He turned to Lestrade.

"We will study your case later".

"Sherlock isn't coming?" asked Molly.

"To meet Anderson? What do you want, that they set fire to the bookstore?"

Molly laughed hard. Greg looked at them, lost.

"The bookstore's owner we are going to, Mrs. Hudson, is lovely. But her assistant, Philip Anderson and Sherlock hate each other to death. Hate at first sight" she mocked. 

"It would be more accurate envy at first sight".

"Why would anyone be jealous of a ghostwriter?" asked Greg astonished.

"A ghostwriter? That is what Sherlock told you?" asked Molly, amused.

Mycroft grunted.

"Come on, Mycroft, don't be grumpy" she advised.

Lestrade could not help but marvel that the petite woman treated Mycroft as if he were a kitten when the man always looked like a tiger about to attack.

"He shouldn't do that. Anthea told him".

"And Anthea and John advised him to go at his own pace".

Mycroft didn't reply and let it go.

"You look pleased today, Mycroft.", she teased.

Sherlock's brother cleared his throat and looked at the car in front of him. Molly settled down on the seat, amused.

Fifteen minutes later, they parked in front of Hatchard's, one of London's most prestigious bookstores. Greg never visited it, but knew it well. It was famous because writers as Lord Byron, Rudyard Kipling, G.K. Chesterton, or Somerset Maughan purchased their books there.

They got out of the car, entered the bookstore and climbed the stairs to the top floor when a tall, slim, mousy air young man was waiting for them.

"All set?" asked Mycroft, bypassing any greetings or introductions, ignoring the bookcase's gesture of discomfort.

The man nodded.

"We just sent out the invitations".

"Only the agreed ones, right, Philip?" Molly asked in a nicer tone. 

"Of course. Not one more".

Mycroft turned to Molly.

"Sherlock will find it too much of a crowd".

"A crowd?" grunted Philip. "Too few people. You can't imagine how many requests we're getting. We could fill..."

"I don't care" barked Mycroft, sourly "What we agreed on and nothing more. We can't afford another incident like the one in New York, are you able to understand it?"

Mycroft looked at him and turned to Molly.

"Maybe we should cancel it out", he doubted.

Anderson looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

"Cancel it?" he shouted in a high-pitched voice. "Cancel it? You can't imagine what impact this is having, thousands of people..."

"Don't worry, no one is cancelling anything" they heard Mrs. Hudson said, firmly but politely, coming from the back-room. "And don't dare to mention thousands of people in front of Sherlock, Philip".

Lestrade liked her instantly. A sweet and understanding older woman, but with much more temperament and strength than she showed at first sight.

She turned to Mycroft. 

"You have nothing to worry about".

"Sherlock needs to do this. Anthea said it would be good for him", remembered Molly.

Mycroft sighed in a way Lestrade realized he knew Molly was right. 

"All right,' he gave up.

Anderson sighed with relief. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, as Mrs. Hudson smiled. She gestured for him to go to the ground floor, and Anderson obeyed, grunting.

"You know, to whom God does not give children, the devil gives nephews" Mrs. Hudson joked. "As always, be sure I will do anything Sherlock could need to feel safe. I prepared the distribution of the furniture as he requested and I am in continuous contact with Anthea and John".

She put her hand on Mycroft's arm with a reassuring gesture.

"I know you're worried, I know Sherlock is scared, but everything will be fine".

She turned to Lestrade.

"And it wouldn't hurt you to get back to social etiquette and introduce me to your assistant" she scolded Mycroft, who hawked, slightly gilded.

"He is not my assistant. He is one of my clients, Gregory Lestrade".

"Nice to meet you, Greg" Mrs. Hudson smiled, shaking his hand "I can't remember the last time you brought a client to the bookstore".

"I have to go get the car" he muttered, running down the stairs "The slightest mistake and I will file so many complaints against you that your grandchildren will have to keep paying for them" he menaced, getting out of the bookshop.

Instead of getting scared, both women chuckled, looking at Lestrade. The painter blushed a bit.

"Don't mind him, Martha," asked Molly "He is just trying to protect Sherlock. He is making a big effort too".

"I know, dear; otherwise, I would have already given him a good spanking" joked the woman.

She grabbed Lestrade by the elbow leading him down the stairs to the street.

"And tell me, how did you and Mycroft meet?"

"Sherlock" replied Greg, not quite sure what to say.

She covered her mouth with her hand, laughing amusingly, looking at Molly.

"Live to see. I'm sure I will see you again soon, Greg," she said, glancing out at the street where Mycroft, in his car, was talking on the phone.

"I will stay with Martha to work out the details", said Molly "will you invite me a tea?"

"Of course, dear".

They said goodbye to Lestrade, who approached the car, not knowing whether to get in so as not to interrupt Mycroft's conversation until he invited him in with a gesture.

"Let's go to my office."

Twenty minutes later, the car disappeared into the garage of an elegant building in Belgravia. They climbed a flight of stairs and after crossing a glass door, entered a spacious reception area decorated in light tones. The receptionist smiled.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Miss Adler is already waiting for you in your office".

Mycroft nodded slightly and, followed by Lestrade, walked down a long corridor also painted in light colours, decorated with small pictures that Lestrade didn't have time to look at. They entered a wooden office, with a large window overlooking an enormous garden. With an intelligent and sharp look, a dark and attractive woman was waiting for him, sitting on one of the armchairs. She was chatting quietly with a smiling, blond, curly hair girl of about seventeen, who was holding a notebook.

Mycroft left the door open and sat behind the table in a comfortable leather armchair and gestured to Lestrade to sit in one of the armchairs in front of the table.

"This is Irene Adler, my partner, and Rosamund Marie Watson, my niece. She is studying a double degree in Criminology and Medical science, and working as an intern in our firm in her free time" he said, pride filling his voice.

Lestrade looked at her, amazed. She has to be really smart to study that, as her bright blue eyes showed. The same blue eyes…

"Watson? You are...?"

She nodded.

"I am John Watson's daughter".

Greg raised his eyebrows in surprise, and from her playful gesture, it was clear that she was used to such a reaction.

"Call me, Rosie, please. Did you really though Dad and Sherlock were serial killers?" she asked, amused.

Greg blushed.

"It's not so strange" Irene advocated for him "Sherlock is always talking about gruesome crimes, and your father is a neurosurgeon. Blood everywhere".

The three of them laughed. 

"Well, lovely, enough" grunted Mycroft "Rosamund is living with me while his father and my brother are in their…. temporal reclusion"

The teen nodded.

"Did you bring the notes I asked for?" asked Mycroft.

Lestrade nodded and handed them to him, but he gestured him to give it to Rosie, who had a look at the sheets.

"You know what you have to do".

She nodded and left the office.

"You still have three pending complaints filed against you by your ex-husband," Irene said, reading a tablet "For alimony, for... appropriating objects that were both yours and for.... breaking and entering?

Lestrade rubbed his eyes, anxious.

"I never tried to enter the house, and I haven't taken anything that wasn't mine. As for the alimony..."

"Don't worry," Mycroft reassured him, "it's clear that your ex's strategy is to harass you based on allegations he knows you can't deal with. He already managed to bankrupt you. In fact, you have several outstanding garnishments..., and as I understand it "he looked at Irene "he's preparing even more".

"But I have nothing!" Greg barely held back his tears, desperate "I didn't take anything from our house. I didn't want anything! Abandonment of the home? Again? If he had another husband. But what the hell does he want?"

"To destroy you. Financially, personally and emotionally" answered the eldest of the Holmes.

"Mycroft..." Irene warned him "don't worry. It's a prevalent strategy, especially in narcissistic people like your husband. He still doesn't understand how you can dare to abandon someone as special as him, and he wants to make you pay for it.

"If he contacts you in any way before the next trial, don't talk to him. Don't let him know that we are representing you" advised Mycroft "at the next trial we will give him a little surprise" he smiled triumphantly. "I can't wait to see his face".

"Not me," mumbled Lestrade.

"You won't have to if you don't want to. You are in the best hands, especially now that Mycroft has a personal interest in the matter".

"For Sherlock" quickly argued his partner. "But be prepared. This is going to be the start of a pitched battle. Your ex will use every trick, gimmick and bad art at hand to bring you down".

"I don't think he has much left to do now".

"I'm going to prepare the next trial" smiled Irene, getting up and leaving the office, walking in a sensual and feline way, her hips wiggling gently.

"You... you really are going to mobilize your whole... law firm for me? As I said, I don't have any money or prospects of...".

"And as I told you this morning, I'm not doing this for the money, but for justice. Because someone has to stop the bastards who abuse others. Money, as I told you, is not a problem. Working as Sherlock's literary agent, I earn enough to cover what my fee would be and much more".

"So it is some kind of personal crusade?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Something like that".

Greg quickly put the pieces together.

"A personal crusade that, somehow, has to do with Sherlock's phobia of being touched, right?"

Mycroft frowned and for a few seconds his eyes dazed, lost in his memories, bathed in deep sadness. He blinked to clear them.

"Something like that" he repeated, in a lower tone.

"Thank you very much. I don't know how I can ever thank you".

Mycroft smiled, this time a little more openly, but said nothing.

"You can buy him a cup of coffee," said Rosie, entering the office and leaving some papers on Mycroft's table, only to come out again, winking at her uncle who seemed to be holding back his desire to strangle her. They heard her laughter on the other side of the door. 

Both Mycroft and Lestrade blushed furiously, avoided looking at each other.

Mycroft cleared his throat again.

"I... must work," he mused.

"Oh yes, yes, of course," Lestrade stood up, walked a couple of steps and turned to look at Mycroft, hesitating.

"I would like to know..."

Mycroft quickly looked up from the paper, expectant.

Noticing those sharp grey eyes staring at him, Lestrade lost all the courage he had collected in those seconds.

"Yes, if you needed any more documents".

Mycroft looked down for a second, Lestrade would have sworn he was disappointed and cursed inwardly.

"No, not, for now, I will call you if I need anything more".

"Perfect, thank you" he left the office embarrassed and angry with himself.

He had been a coward. But what were the chances that someone like Mycroft would take notice of someone like him? Not one in a million. Not one in a billion. And besides...

"Would you like some coffee?" he heard Rosie's singing voice behind him.

He turned and saw her looking at him with those blue eyes, a perfect blend of John's blue ones and the piercing gaze of Sherlock's greenish-blue. He nodded. He didn't have much left to do there, but he didn't feel like going back to his flat either.

"You got questions", said Rosie, once they were in a small room around a table. John's daughter put two cups on top of her and filled them with coffee.

"How... I mean... your father is gay, isn't he?"

She giggled.

"No. My father is bisexual. Sherlock is gay. And, by the way, Uncle Mycroft is also gay and, no, he's not married to or involved with Aunt Irene, who is a lesbian and married to another woman, in case you were wondering".

Greg took a sip of his coffee.

"You are scary, you know that?" 

She laughed and nodded.

"Yes, my teachers at the uni often tell me that".

"Aren't you a little young to be going to college?"

"While I was studying, I skipped two courses. That's why I'm going to uni at seventeen" Lestrade looked at her, shocked "Advantages of having a genius as a stepfather "she chuckled.

"And... if you don't mind me asking... Your mother?"

"My parents divorced shortly after I was born. They were young, both at the college, still studying medicine. She was twenty, and my father was twenty-four and..., in short, they realized that neither was the person the other was looking for. My mother got married soon after, but my father remained single until he met Sherlock eight years ago,".

She smiled, pouring a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee,

"I still remember what it took for him to tell me that he had fallen in love with a man. I believe he thought it would traumatize me or something".

"And you didn't?"

She shook her head.

"My father was happy again. Not that he wasn't before, but..., he was missing something; but, with Sherlock, it was as if he found what he had been looking for all his life. And yet their relationship was not easy."

"Do you like him?"

"Sherlock? I adore him. He's a great guy. I know he seems rough and strange at first, and he is different, but he's adorable. But don't tell him I said that".

Lestrade raised his hand.

"I promise. Thank you for being so honest with me".

She shrugged.

"Sherlock knows people, and he decided that you can be trusted. So has Dad, and you have even passed Uncle Myc's filter, so..."

"But you're not living with them now".

"No, they don't want me to go to that little flat where they are now because…" she made a gesture with her hand and Lestrade guessed she was hiding something, "Sherlock writes better there".

"Tell me something. Sherlock is not a ghostwriter, is he?"

Rosie burst out laughing.

"A ghostwriter? Not at all."

"Who is he? Because he clearly writes under a pseudonym."

The girl shook her head.

"That's for daddy or him to tell you."

"Professional secret?"

She nodded, amused.

Her phone vibrated and unlocked. She pursed her lips, looking at the picture of a thin, pale man, black hair combed backwards, with a cold and smart look in his black eyes, elegantly dressed in a black suit. Below, a brief message Lestrade could not read.

"A friend of your father and Sherlock?" asked Lestrade.

Rosie frowned, shaking her head. Something in Lestrade's way of questioning disturbed her.

"Why do you say that?

"Oh, because I bumped into him the other day on my way out of the flat."

"Out of the… your building ...?" she asked, alarmed.

Lestrade nodded.

Rosie grabbed his hand and pulled him, walking like an exhalation into Mycroft's office. She entered without knocking, but before her uncle could scold her, she began to talk.

"Uncle Myc, Greg says he saw Moriarty near Dad and Sherlock's flat".

Mycroft blinked, as alarmed as his niece.

"When was that?"

"Yesterday. I bumped into him just as I left the building.

"Shit. Call your father. And that annoying woman from New Scotland Yard."

Rosie nodded and took her phone.

Mycroft looked at Rosie and Lestrade with a warning gesture.

"Remember, Sherlock, can't know about this."


	6. Living in a parallel hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg learns about Sherlock and Mycroft's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, mind the tags before reading this chapter.

Mycroft parked his car in the Barts' Hospital car park, and he and Lestrade got out of the car and climbed the stairs quickly to the hospital lobby. 

The painter followed the lawyer, not understanding what was happening. After asking him to accompany him to meet John, Mycroft adopted an impassive gesture and remained silent throughout the journey, immersed in his thoughts, a silence that Lestrade didn't dare to interrupt. 

They hurried through the long corridors, Mycroft walking at full speed and Lestrade beside him. From time to time, someone greeted them, Sherlock's brother responded with a quick nod, and Lestrade decided to do the same until, instead of taking the lift, they headed for the stairs. Four floors up, they appeared in an office area and walked to the last one, where Mycroft dropped into one of the two chairs in front of a large black table crammed with files and medical reports, which barely held a laptop, and invited a panting Lestrade to sit on the other one. 

The elder Holmes kept his tense silence, twisting the handle of his umbrella in his hands, as Lestrade glanced at the shelves that covered the walls of the room, filled with medical magazines, books and more files. He smiled as he saw Sherlock and Rosie's two photos on one of the shelves in front of a row of publications from The Lancet. One was taken long ago because the writer looked younger, and Rosie should not be more than ten. She was sitting on the writer's lap and observing him with attention as he talked to her. In the other, much more recent, both were sitting around a table. Rosie had several thick open textbooks around her, a laptop, and a notebook, and Sherlock seemed to be explaining something about the books because he was pointing to one of them. Neither of them seemed to have noticed that John (Lestrade assumed it was him) was taking their picture, both of them intensely focused on what they were doing. 

Soon the neurosurgeon entered, with a worried gesture. He greeted them and sat down in front of them at the table. He and Mycroft glanced at each other, and Sherlock's brother nodded imperceptibly, before taking a chocolate bar out of his pocket and ate it in a couple of bites. The neurosurgeon glanced at him for a few seconds without saying anything, until he focused his attention again on Lestrade. 

"Thanks for coming, Greg. This must all sound crazy to you but... this is a sensitive subject. First of all, you should know that Rosie doesn't know anything about what Mycroft is going to tell you, and we want to keep it that way, okay? I'm telling you this because she will probably ask you when she finds out you talked to us. She suspects we are hiding something from her, but, as I said, we want to keep it that way". 

Lestrade nodded. 

"She will find out sooner or later. She is brilliant and has a strong personality. It must not have been easy to raise her alone". 

John smiled proudly.

"No, not really". 

"What about her mother? As I understand it, you and she divorced shortly after she was born". 

"Yes, but she didn't want to take care of Rosie. Well, at least the prick she married after we divorced, Sebastian Wilkes". 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and frowned. 

"Wilkes? The idiot who is on TV all day messing with W. Scott and his books?" he asked, angrily. 

John and Mycroft exchanged a funny look. 

"What?" asked Lestrade. 

"Nothing," they replied in chorus. 

"But yes, it's him, the success he doesn't get with his books, he tries to achieve it by sticking his nose into other writer's lives. He wanted to get rid of Rosie from the start, and soon after they were married, Mary came to me and said she couldn't take care of her. 

"It must have been difficult, with your profession". 

"With the guards, finishing my studies, the operations..., yes, it was quite complicated, but thanks to the hospital nursery, colleagues and friends, I managed to get her through. And of course, it was much easier since I met Sherlock". 

"They get along well". 

"Well? I think she loves him more than me!"

The three of them laughed.

"Rosie didn't like any of my former girlfriends. I didn't introduce her to many either, but she didn't get along with any of them. But with Sherlock, it was total mutual adoration from the first moment". 

"It was she who asked him if they were dating," said Mycroft. 

John chuckled. 

"Really?"

"Yes, I had been dating only women for a long time, and I didn't know how to tell her that I fell in love with a man. So I made the clumsy mistake of introducing him as a friend. The third time she saw us together, Rosie said to me: "Dad, when are you going to tell me that Sherlock is your boyfriend?" And she was nine years old!"

Lestrade laughed, amused. John shook his head. 

"After that, everything was much easier. As Sherlock looked after her while I was working, they spent many hours together. That's why she loves criminology and medicine, so many hours listening to him talk about murders, autopsies, investigations, forensic laboratories, crimes, deductions. It was inevitable that Rosie decided to be a kind of medical-private investigator, this is why she decided to study medicine and criminology".

The three chuckled again. Then John got serious, looked sideways at Mycroft and continued. 

"What Rosie knows, as does Sherlock, is that Jim Moriarty is working for Sebastian Wilkes, to find out where the next book presentation of his book will be, which is also true". 

Lestrade watched them for a few moments. 

"Okay, I know Sherlock is not a ghostwriter, as he said, but... why is a book presentation a secret? The more publicity for a writer, the better, right?

John shook his head. 

"Three years ago, in New York, Sherlock presented the hundredth edition of his first book, a special casket edition, with the book in a special binding with his notes, photos, not of him, obviously, but of his notes, the bibliography... The venue was large because quite a few people were expected to attend, but all the forecasts were exceeded. When the organisers tried to close the doors to avoid more people to enter, it was no longer possible, and people kept arriving. The room was packed to the rafters. If it was distressing for us, it was terrifying for Sherlock. But before we could get him out of there, fans managed to get past the safety line and jumped on him. Because of the crowd, it took us a while to get people off him. It was quite traumatic for him and..."

"Wait a minute!" Lestrade interrupted him, excitedly, "I remember that! Are you telling me Sherlock is W. Scott?" he almost shouted. 

"We thought you already knew that", chuckled John "Sherlock almost fainted when you mentioned his last book".

Greg shook his head, rubbing his hands on his hair, stunned and speechless. He met W. Scott, his favourite writer!!!!! His novels sold hundreds of thousands of copies in both digital and print versions. They had been translated into over two hundred languages, and each work he published immediately climbed to the top of the bestseller list. The critics were not always kind to him, but his readers loved him.

As if he were a rock star, readers lined up for days at the doors of bookstores when he published a new work, to be the first to buy and read it. His name had been on the cover of the most prestigious magazines - never his photograph, and an interview with him was worth gold, because of the amount of audience he attracted. 

As a faithful follower, he knew W. Scott defended his private life at all costs from journalists. In fact, there weren't pictures of him. Not even in his books. On the back cover, where it was usual to find the writer's photo, only his logo, a capital W, and S surrounded by a black circle simulating the firmament in which a lonely star shone under the letters. He always assumed the writer felt this way, a lone star, at least, as he knew now until he found John. 

"I saw him gripping the glass so tightly that I thought he would blow it up, but it didn't occur to me... I saw what happened in the news. According to journalists, some of the readers warned organisers about the excessive amount of people assisting in the event". 

John nodded. 

"Readers usually are quiet people, who just want to get their favourite author's signing in their book and have a little chat with him" affirmed Mycroft. "Molly and I prepared everything carefully, to ensure that the capacity of the site was not exceeded. What we didn't know was the bookstore was handing out invitations behind our backs. It was chaotic. The security team wasn't able to control the people who pounced on Sherlock. He was scared to death." 

John pursed his lips.

"I know a lot of people find the idea of being surrounded and trapped by fans attractive, even kind of sexy. But for Sherlock, with his social phobia and haphephobia, it was hell ".

"Okay, and what does that have to do with Sebastian Wilkes?"

Mycroft sighed. 

"He found out Sherlock is going to make another presentation. As you know, we handle it in secret, invitations are counted, and we don't want any publicity. We have to go slowly and get everything under control. Otherwise, it would be counter-productive for Sherlock". 

Lestrade looked at him blankly. 

"You saw how he protects his personal space and what happens when he is grazed. Sherlock made a lot of progress up to that point. When I first met him, his social phobia was almost insurmountable. He also had agoraphobia, so he rarely left the house," explained John. 

"Like Sigourney Weaver in Copycat movie". 

John nodded. 

"Something like that. As I say, Sherlock made a lot of progress, but since what happened in New York, his phobias worsened, so he became quite isolated again, except for a small circle of friends and us". 

"And why you organised the presentation? Won't it be worse for him?"

"The only way to overcome phobias is controlled exposure to what causes them. It is the only way to lose the fear that provokes them. Little by little and in a controlled way. Anthea, Sherlock's therapist, is helping us a lot. That's why, as well as finding out why you were spying on us, I asked him to invite you to lunch, and we invited you to breakfast, to help combat his social phobia". 

"So, I'm a kind of defobisher". 

Both mumbled. 

"Something like that. The problem is that Sebastian found out, and is trying to find out where the event will be, to communicate it through social media sites. You can get an idea of what would happen if he did". 

Lestrade nodded. He imagined it perfectly. He would go anywhere where it was known that W. Scott was going to reappear. And like him, his millions of readers, who had been waiting almost three years for a new book. They didn't care that W. Scott didn't give interviews on the TV or any other place where people could see his face. Or that he didn't go to presentations, book signings or literary events. Or that the few interviews he gave were only in written media, or chats with readers through the Internet. 

Until then, Lestrade thought, like many other fans, that it was just a publicity stunt to increase the mystery around the author and therefore book sales. 

"And that's what Sherlock and Rosie know. That Sebastian Wilkes wants to provoke another similar event. Since that happened, he has been blocked and has not been able to write again, until now. Wilkes intuits that this would sink his career and also increase his cachet to go from set to set, gossiping about him," he grunted. 

Lestrade inhaled deeply. 

"Okay. And what they don't know?

John looked at Mycroft, inviting him to speak. The lawyer hesitated for a few moments. 

"First of all, we want you to know that if you want to stay out of it, that's your right. I will continue to prosecute your case, okay? This is not a _quid pro quo._ But we thought that since..." 

Lestrade stopped him with a gesture. 

"I don't want to stay out of it. Help W... Sherlock? Count me in. I want to do it, just like you're doing with me".

Mycroft flashed a shy, tense, grateful smile. He frowned, inspired, and arranged his suit. Then turned to the window and looked through it for a few minutes, summoning up the courage to speak. When he finally did, without turning to them, his voice was muffled, almost monotonous, but Lestrade could sense the pain contained within it. John's smile faded, and anger covered his features. 

"Siger, our father, was a bastard. With me, he was very strict. With Sherlock… he hated him since the day he was born. He neglected him since that moment. When Sherlock was two years old, he brutally beat him up for the first time. From that moment, whenever he got angry with him or for any other reason, he beat him, punched him, kicked him, slammed him against the furniture, against the walls…". 

Lestrade flinched a bit. Mycroft closed his eyes. 

"I'm sorry, maybe I was too graphic," he apologised. 

Lestrade shook his head and invited him to continue with a gesture.

"Sherlock is a vocational writer. He enjoyed writing since he was a child. In fact, I think it was the only time he was happy at our parents' house. In all his school notebooks, on the back, he wrote his stories. He wrote on the sly because if my father caught him writing, he tore his notebook to pieces and hit him with a belt, with a stick, or he burnt the pages and then my brother with a cigarette. He used to say he would get rid Sherlock of that nonsense of writing even if he had to kill him for it".

Greg covered his mouth with a gasped hand, horrified. 

"But it wasn't just about writing. My father vented all his frustrations on him, whatever they were. Sherlock was a very sensible boy, an artist, and Siger couldn't stand it". 

He pressed his lips hard. 

"I tried to stop our father one of the first times he hit Sherlock, but since then, he locked me in a room to beat him without having to deal with me. My father was tall and robust, and I couldn't do anything against him. Besides, the bastard realised that it terrified Sherlock even more because he already knew what was going to happen to him every time he locked me in". 

Greg pictured the image clearly in his mind. Siger dragging Mycroft into a room while the boy struggled to get free to prevent him from beating Sherlock, asking his father not to hurt him, unable to do anything against the man's strength while little Sherlock cried, terrified, perhaps also begging his father not to beat him, knowing that nothing would stop him. He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes tightly, feeling his stomach shrink. 

An infinite range and sadness washed over Mycroft's words as his voice grew darker. The effort he was making to tell of it, to share something that both brothers carried in secret for a long time, the pain it caused him to bring it back, was evident. From John's slight gestures encouraging him to continue, it was clear that, although difficult, it must be good for him to let go of the ghosts that had been haunting them for so long. 

"When he let me out, Sherlock was in his room, with a book in his hands, reading, or pretending to, acting as if nothing had happened, as if the blows and wounds didn't hurt or bleed. It was horrible".

"Why did he do it?"

Mycroft sighed. 

"If he cried or I reproached my father what he did, he hit him again. So we learned to act as if everything was normal. We didn't say anything, not even while I was healing his wounds, cuts, burns... as if it were someone else I was healing. It was crazy". 

Mycroft squeezed the umbrella handle hard as if he wanted to strangle it. 

"Fortunately, Sherlock doesn't remember most of what happened; his brain blocked the memories. As he says, I have a few memories of my childhood, and they are all bad, so I'm not interested in getting the rest back." 

John raised the left corner of his mouth, nodding slightly and sadly. 

"And your mother?"

"She disappeared every time our father hit Sherlock. She sneaked out of the house and do nothing about it. I guess she was terrorised too, and deep down, she thought it was better he hit the kid instead of her. I never understood how she was able to do that. I mean, from a psychological point of view I can understand it, but..." 

"School? Teachers?"

"My father told me that if I said anything, he would beat Sherlock to death, and our father threatened him to kill me if he told anybody what happened at home. Sherlock locked himself up in sullen silence, always alone, always avoiding others. Teachers weren't able to see beyond what they decided was an asocial personality. He suffered bullying because of it, and none of the teachers helped him. No one understood that, for Sherlock, the world was a frightening place where practically everyone who approached him, hurt him. That's why he shunned people, distanced himself, and became quieter. And the more he did so, the more bullying he received from his classmates, and the more his teachers insisted on saying that he was a weird and asocial child. School psychologists even said that he was a highly functional sociopath. Assholes…"

"But... what about the doctors?" asked Greg "Someone had to examine Sherlock and realise..."

John shook his head sadly. 

"My father never took him to the hospital. He hit him where he knew the bruises would not be seen. If his injuries were serious, he took him to one of his brothers, who was a doctor. The first time he took him, I hoped he would report it. But my father told him Sherlock fell while playing or something similar. And he took it for granted. Not one question, not one comment. And so, all the times my father took him to see him." 

He paused a bit, breathing deeply. 

"As for the rest of the family, friends..., It seems incredible, but they believed Siger. From the time Sherlock was born, my father didn't stop complaining about how rebellious he was, that he was a difficult, asocial, strange and clumsy child. A freak, as he used to call him. Soon the rest of the family and my parents' friends saw him like that. That's why nobody found it strange that he limped or appeared with a bruise from time to time. And that's why we accepted that nobody would help us, nobody would do anything for us, nobody would end up with that. Many of my uncles and aunts even advised my father to take a firm hand with Sherlock. Bastards".

"But..., someone had to notice. I mean, someone like your father..." 

"At that time, child abuse was considered exclusive to families with few economic resources, and today, it is still done in a way. In fact, it was not until 1962 that child abuse as such began to be discussed "intervened John "Even today, for the society, it is difficult to accept that an adult can hurt someone as helpless as a child, even more, being their son or daughter. That is why, many times, the blame is placed unconsciously on the child in the family environment. Or, as was the case in Sherlock's family, nobody speaks about it. Everyone senses that something is wrong, but no one wants to give it a name. It happens in many cases of abuse or bullying. People are afraid that the abuser will turn his anger on them and, as long as he turns it on the victim, they are safe". 

"But..., you were just children..." 

"Yes, but, as John says, no one thought that this could happen in families like mine, of the wealthy class, at the hands of liberal professionals, as in the case of my father, a renowned tax advisor, with influence in society. It was inconceivable that he was an abuser. They didn't realize that, as soon as he closed our house's door, our father turned into the devil". 

Mycroft slowly shook his head as if he couldn't believe what was happening then. 

"My parents kept inviting friends over for lunch and dinner, and there was nothing to make them suspect what was wrong with us. As John said, we were forced to act as if nothing was happening, making it not exist. Those who came home found themselves in the presence of the perfect family, with two perfect kids, without a shout or a disagreement. Even if, shortly before, my father beat up Sherlock". 

His voice broke in the last sentence, and he fell silent for a few moments.

"We both sat at the table with everyone, without a tear, without a complaint. Without making noise, trying to go unnoticed, because if someone paid attention to us, we got terrified. I could see Sherlock shrink in fear every time an adult came near him or groped him. Or how he grit his teeth when the blows hurt or looked at me in horror when my sleeve got up, showing the bruises on my wrists from when my father dragged me in. But nobody noticed anything. It was like living in a parallel hell, just me and Sherlock, shouting in silence, hoping for someone to notice what was happening and help us, but no one could hear us. Nobody saw us. And, a lot of times, that was worse than the beatings". 

Mycroft blinked, his eyes filled with tears. Lestrade understood then that distant coldness, eager to terrorise everyone with his eyes, to take them away from himself. It was not akin to superiority or disdain for others. He was protecting himself, just as Sherlock did. It was a question of survival for them.

"And you never tried to escape?"

"A couple of times, but the police sent us back home and the consequences for Sherlock..., Until..., I waited until I was eighteen and then we ran away from home. I could legally leave so that he couldn't send the police after me, and I knew that even if he were eleven, Siger wouldn't look for Sherlock". 

"And how did you manage to get by?"

"I worked as hard as I could. From dishwashing in restaurants to cleaning offices. Anything that allowed us to eat and have a place to sleep, although sometimes we had to do it on the street".

Mycroft's previously clenched jaw relaxed, as did his face. For the first time since he started talking, he turned slowly towards Lestrade. 

"Sherlock loved books, and we didn't have the money to buy them, but there were too many people in the public libraries for him to feel comfortable. So, when I wasn't working, we went around the bookstores at the hour when there were fewer people. He chose a book, hide in a corner and read until the library closed or the owner kicked us out because we didn't buy the books we were reading".

He smiled fondly. 

"A couple of years later, as we were going to enter a large bookstore, we saw a sign indicating that they needed an assistant. Martha, Mrs Hudson, placed the advertisement. We entered, and I asked for the job. She did not seem very convinced until she noticed Sherlock, who was then thirteen, sitting in a corner, reading Stephen King's book Misery. The poor woman almost had a heart attack. When she went to take it off to give him one more suited to his age, they started talking about books". 

Mycroft smiled at the memory. 

"I can still see her shocked face. At that age, Sherlock already read essays, philosophy, scientific books, especially chemistry and physics..., treatises on psychiatry, criminology... My father always told him he was stupid, slow, and dumb, when, in fact, he had the mind of a mathematician or a philosopher. He is brilliant. Not as much as me, but he is". 

John chuckled, shaking his head. The older Holmes looked at him, raising an eyebrow but said nothing. 

"When I saw him talking to her, I couldn't believe it. It had been years since Sherlock had spoken to anyone. When we were at our parent's house, he hardly ever went out of his room. When we fled from there, he rarely went out on the street, except if we were forced to wander around looking for a place to sleep. But, for some reason, Mrs Hudson inspired his confidence. She gave me the job, and when she found out that we were living in a hostel, she allowed us to live in one of her empty flats, in Baker Street, 221C. She was living in the A, and the B was rented at the time". 

"In Baker Street? That must have been expensive." 

"It was. But Martha told us she preferred us to live there to any stranger. It was a lie, of course, but I think she couldn't stand the idea of us being lost from joint to joint. She said that just by having the house occupied, she considered herself paid. I moved from there a long time ago, but Sherlock, John and Rosie still live there". 

John nodded. 

"When Sherlock and I started dating, and Martha found out that I had a daughter, long before we moved in together, 221B 'just happened' to be empty. I think she threw the then tenants out with a brush" the three of them chuckled. "She knew the C was too small for the three of us. We still have it rented because Sherlock uses it as an office to write in if he needs to concentrate, and Rosie to study". 

"Now I understand why he was treating you with such familiarity," Lestrade smiled at Mycroft. 

He nodded. 

"That woman saved our lives. The only condition she put on us is that we should continue to study. But we didn't have money to pay for our studies, so she financed them, my law studies at Cambridge University and Sherlock's literature and creative writing studies at Lancaster University He couldn't go to university, but Mrs Hudson got a distance learning program designed for him. So he graduated, and I was able to leave quietly to study, knowing that she would take care of him. We owe everything to her. I would say she was like a second mother to us, but in our case, she was really the first".

Lestrade couldn't help but feel heartbroken at the pain, abandonment and lack of affection that those words implied. 

Mycroft continued to speak in a relaxed tone. 

"Sherlock was happy. He still hardly talked to anyone except Martha and me, but she realised he had a special talent for deducing which book the indecisive customers who came into the bookshop, looking for something to read or for a gift would like. He chose a book, and Martha took it to the customer. Many of them returned days later, to buy more, praising her for the good advice she gave them. And Sherlock found it fun. It prevented him from getting bored. He spent the hours in the backroom, hidden and alone but, in a way, relating to others, which was very good for him". 

"And she knew about your father?"

Mycroft shook his head. 

"No, she didn't know until a couple of years later, when Sherlock started writing again. He hadn't been able to write a word for years since..." he shook his head as if to try and erase a memory "He always wrote secretly in the bookstore, like when we lived at my parents' house. When he heard someone, Sherlock hid the notebook he was writing in. Even at home, he kept them hidden. One day, Martha caught him and, when she asked him what he was writing, he dropped the notebook, terrified, covered his head with his arms and started to cry, sure that she would beat him up like my father or his school mates. When I told Martha, she got livid and advised us to report him. I was already studying law but was not yet a lawyer, so she recommended us Lady Smallwood's firm and paid all the expenses". 

He stirred in the chair, upsetting.

"Obviously, when Sherlock started to make money from his books and me with my law firm, we tried to pay her back everything she lent us, but she refused".

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, amused

"Martha has much more of a character than might appear at first glance. That's why we organise any event related to Sherlock in her bookstore. The publicity translates into sales and, in that way, we try to return everything she did for us". 

Mycroft got solemn and went back to look through the window.

"The trial was very tough," he almost whispered, as John's face reflected more anger, mixed with, sadness and grief. 

"We had to relive everything, speaking with doctors, the police, the lawyers...; many times I regretted it. Sherlock's nightmares had improved, but with that, they got worse, as well as his phobias. Fortunately, he was able to testify behind a screen without having to see my father. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to". 

"You too?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. 

"No, I wanted to see his face when being taken to prison. I wanted to see him go in there so he wouldn't come out again. But my father didn't back down. He threatened to kill Sherlock in front of the court and the jury and did not stop threatening him until he was taken to prison". 

"I hope he rots there," said Lestrade vehemently.

"We too, but..., two months ago, they reviewed his parole application. Some idiot decided that, because of the time he had spent in prison, he is reformed," replied Mycroft. 

"He has been released?" he almost screamed. 

John nodded. 

"No one notified us, not even the Parole Board. Mycroft found out by chance from one of his contacts at the courthouse, who warned him. We spoke to New Scotland Yard, but until his father tries to attack Sherlock, they can't do anything. Fortunately, one DI, Sally Donovan, decided to help us, even though she hates Sherlock's books because she says they always leave NSY like idiots. She put Siger under surveillance, but a few days later, they lost him. The next thing we knew, Siger hired Moriarty to find out Sherlock's whereabouts. This is why we moved to this apartment. Moriarty has no scruples and doesn't hesitate to work for criminals. In fact, he is being investigated for run one criminal organisation. All he cares about is getting paid. And Sherlock's father still is a very wealthy man". 

"But... why don't you cancel the presentation?"

John and Mycroft looked at each other. 

"Because the presentation is a trap to catch Siger. Not since the beginning, obviously, but, along with NSY, we thought it would be a perfect way of catching him. That's why we don't want anything to get out until the last day when we'll let Moriarty know". 

Lestrade gaped. 

"If NSY doesn't arrest him, he could attack Sherlock at any moment. And if we cancel the presentation now, we would have to explain to Sherlock why. He is aware his father wants to take revenge on him. It wouldn't be difficult for him to put two and two together". 

"And..., wouldn't it be better if he knew? After all, Sherlock is tall and strong and could easily face up to... how old is his father now?"

"Maybe so. But Sherlock, having experienced abuse, suffers from what is called PTSD-complex. It is like PTSD, but due to repeatedly experience traumatic events instead of only one. Sherlock knows how to defend himself. In fact, part of his therapy to overcome his abuse was to learn boxing and martial arts. And he knows how to shoot a gun. Even so, because of PTSD-complex, there is a possibility that, when he sees Siger, he experiments an emotional flash-back and becomes paralysed, terrified, not being able to defend himself".

"And if he does, my father will not hesitate to kill him or at least try to do it".

"Siger is what in Psychiatry is called a Malignant Narcissist. It is a type of narcissistic personality disorder that includes paranoid features, aggressive and sadistic behaviour, and other traits, which makes him really dangerous. In his mind, Sherlock is responsible for everything that happened to him, and will not hesitate to destroy him for revenge". 

Greg shuddered. 

"What if he shows up at the presentation?"

"DI Donovan will be there with several officers, and we hired a special security team. We informed everyone about Siger. We wish he showed up and did something stupid. That way, he would be put in Indeterminate sentence, and Sherlock wouldn't have to worry about him anymore... But I swear to God if he tries to hurt Sherlock, I will kill him with my own hands". 

They remained silent for a moment, the echo of John's words floating between them.

Listening to him, Lestrade wished he had someone to defend him as John was willing to do with Sherlock. Someone who cared enough not to let them do him any harm. Alex never cared for him like that. On the contrary, he used to side with those who criticised or belittled him, making him feel even worse, more stupid and ashamed of himself.

Perhaps, one day...

Mycroft's phone vibrated, interrupting his thoughts. The cloud of sadness that bathed his eyes until then disappeared, wholly embedded in the present again. He checked it and smiled disdainfully.

"Your ex-husband filed two more lawsuits against you and three against my law firm".

"And that's good?" asked Greg, distressed and worried. 

"Perfect. You don't have anything to worry about, Gregory, I'll take care of it." The lawyer stood up "I'm sorry, I have to go." 

And without waiting for an answer, he abandoned the office. 

"This is not easy for him either, is it?" asked Lestrade.

"No. When he heard about Siger, he got terrified. He started asking me where Sherlock was, coming home when I wasn't there, but he didn't explain to me why. He just acted like a controlling prick until I got him to speak to me".

"Did he tell you about his father? Sherlock, I mean". 

"No. When we started dating, Sherlock didn't talk about his parents. Well, he didn't talk about anything but books. I suspected he suffered some kind of abuse, regarding all his phobias and reactions, and not talking about them at all, but he had to be the one to tell me willingly. Sherlock was already in therapy, and Anthea encouraged him to do so. He didn't give me many details; he wasn't able to, but... well, you saw his back". 

Lestrade cleared his throat, glowered and nodded, remembering the writer's scarred back. He thought it was some kind of accident when he first saw it, but he never imagined...

Greg cleared his throat a couple of times. 

"Can I ask… how you met Sherlock… since he was so… isolated?

John smiled with the memory.

"Mike Stamford, one of my colleagues, was working at the time on an emergency medical service unit that moved to patients' houses. They were overloaded with work, and when he received a call about what looked like a panic attack, he asked me to come". 

"And it was Sherlock". 

John nodded. 

"At that time, Sherlock had recently published his first book then, and the publisher was keen to organise a presentation. On those days, his phobias were almost intractable, and he had a panic attack when he found out. Mycroft tried to calm him down but finally decided to call us, since Sherlock was totally out of his head" he smiled sadly. 

"When I arrived, I helped him to control the panic attack, and he slowly quieted down; when he was more relaxed, we talked for a while, and I don't know, I was attracted to him somehow. And not only because he was incredibly handsome".

Both chuckled.

"I loved his sensitivity, his personality, his struggle with his phobias. Because of them, he spent his life in isolation, with almost no other close relationship than his brother or Martha. Mycroft did what he could, but he wasn't good at dealing with Sherlock's emotions and feelings, not even with their own. As they were forced to hide them when they were children, both disconnected from them. So I gave him my phone number so he could call me anytime he needed to, any time of the day or night. Whenever he needed me, I would be available". 

Lestrade smiled mischievously. 

"Yes, I know, not very professional," replied John, blushing slightly and running his hand over the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "Before I met him, I had long since decided to... skip my bisexual part and only date women, but... it was an impulse. After a week and a half, he called me back. He was almost on the verge of another nervous breakdown, but I managed again to calm him down. The next few times, it was easier to quieter him. He said my voice helped him to relax. Many nights, he called me, and we talked until he fell asleep. I liked to listen to him when he fell asleep, to hear his breathing, to know he was calm. It was surprisingly intimate and pleasant. After several calls, we started a relationship first on the phone, then dated on skype, and… well, we fall in love with each other". 

Greg listened to him with envy. What he would have given to feel like that again.

"And…, sorry, you don't have to answer if you don't want but… with his haphephobia, the sex…"

John chuckled. 

"I forgot you watched us." 

Greg blushed. 

"When we finally started dating in person, we went to have dinner, to the cinema, concerts…, like any other couple. The only difference was we didn't touch each other. I can't deny I was mad to kiss him, feel him between my arms, and Sherlock suffered because he knew it". 

"Did you tell him?"

John shook his head. 

"You know his damn ability to read people. From time to time, I couldn't control myself and grabbed his hand or caressed his cheek... the poor man froze and fled to his house and didn't attend my calls during days. He was ashamed and desperate for being a freak" he pronounced the last word sourly "as his father used to call him. He was sure I would leave him. But I explained to him that we could do it together, that I would help him. It took us almost three months to hold our hands".

He tilted his head and smiled lovingly.

"We were overwhelmed the first time we took a walk holding our hands. Something so mundane, but for us, it was incredible. Then the kisses and, finally, little by little, we achieved to have sex. Sherlock still feels a bit overwhelmed from time to time, but we learned to handle it". 

Lestrade scrutinised John for a few moments. 

"Did you have problems with your father too? Because you seem to understand Sherlock very well. Obviously, you are a neurosurgeon, and you know the human mind, but…"

"My father rejected me when he found out I was bisexual. He did it before with my older sister when he found out she was a lesbian. He didn't make it easy for me, he insulted me, tried to embarrass me and threw me out of the house... I haven't heard from him in years and, to tell you the truth. It was hard, but, somehow, it helped me to understand Sherlock better, as you said". 

Lestrade looked at him blankly. 

"I think there are many experiences that, if you haven't lived them, you can't completely understand them, no matter how hard you try. I can imagine the horror Sherlock experienced as a child, but I could never really know its true dimension. I can imagine it, I can empathise with him, but I will never be able to live what he lived, I don't know if I explain myself".

The painter nodded. 

"But what I experienced with my father, his rejection, his humiliations, allows me to glimpse what Sherlock suffered, to understand him better. To help him and be more patient, accept his limitations and value his efforts to overcome them, his resilience, his bravery. By this, I don't mean that I wouldn't have loved to have an understanding father, who would have accepted me as I was. But, in a way, it gave meaning to what I experienced".

"Yes, I think I understand you, like pieces of a cosmic puzzle that fit together."

John chuckled. 

"Yes, something like that".

"And are you sure Sherlock doesn't know about his father looking for him? He knows everything." 

"Mycroft knows how to keep secrets from him. I think Sherlock has some intuition about this being more than only Wilkes, but his mind rejects the possibility that it can be his father".

Lestrade nodded. He ran his hand through his grey hair, hesitating.

"John, I... I don't know... could I attend?"

"To the book presentation? Would you like to go?"

"Are you kidding? Me and half the world. I'd love to. It would be a privilege. I could help Mycroft and you with that son of a bitch" he flushed and shook his head, incredulous. "I still cannot believe I met W. Scott. He is my favourite writer. I've read all his novels. No, I've re-read hundreds of times his books. Do you think he will sign them for me?" 

"Ask him" answered John, amused. He looked at him for some instants, "That Alex is a complete asshole for letting someone like you escape." 

Greg blushed and lowered his head. 

"I'm serious. You are worth a lot more than he is, and, much more than you believe."

"Are you hitting on me?"

The neurosurgeon chuckled. 

"No, but only because I have Sherlock. Otherwise, I assure you, I wouldn't hesitate." 

"Thank you. I needed to hear that." 

Greg's soul felt lighter, and it felt right for his battered self-esteem. He imagined himself kissing John but dismissed the idea when the image of Mycroft filled his mind. He surprised himself, thinking he wouldn't mind kissing him.

He blushed and tried to put aside the idea, but Mycroft's imaged floated around him for a few moments more. 

"I'm sorry to leave you like this, but I have to go," said John, his beeper vibrating wildly "I've missed a meeting, and I've got another one now, and if I don't show up, they will cut my head off". 

He walked towards the door, but before leaving, he turned towards him.

"Greg, we trust you. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and find a cloud of journalists at the door looking for W. Scott because you told them about him'. 

Lestrade was about to talk, but John stopped him. 

"If they find out about his father, they will only look for carrion, and it will be hell for him. And for Rosie. And I won't allow that to happen" he growled. 

Greg swallowed. He could sense the veiled threat behind those words. At first, he felt offended, but then he understood John only wanted to protect Sherlock and Rosie, to prevent them from suffering. He was their dragon slayer and would defend them from all the dragons that tried to attack them, no matter if it was Sherlock's sadistic father or the friendly neighbour they had just met. 

"You can trust me, I swear" he assured. "The last thing I want is to hurt any of you". 

John smiled briefly and walked out of his office. When he left, Lestrade remained still for a second, and then walked out from the hospital to the street.

He remained at the entrance for some instants, not knowing very well what to do, trying to process all the distressing feelings the conversation stirred up inside him.

Lestrade walked into a nearby bakery. He needed to eat something to calm him down. What John and Mycroft told him made him feel sorrow, pain and anger. How could he have abused his son like that? The painter could not help but imagine the writer as a child, shaking at the adult's blows, terrified about when the next beating would take place. He clenched his fists so hard that he almost drew blood from his nails. He closed his eyes, feeling that awful craving for food inside him, his stomach twisting.

He was glad that Sherlock was able to get over it. To become a writer, notwithstanding his father's determination to destroy him, was a great victory. To have a partner like John, so understanding, so valuable, a gods' gift.

He doubted to eat the cakes there, but he was too ashamed to let people watching him uncontrollably eating, so he decided to take them to the apartment. 

"What do you want?" asked the young shop assistant, smiling broadly at the handsome, tall, grey-haired stranger. Greg blushed slightly. 

"I want three chocolate cream, three black bottom cupcakes, two Cinnamon Roll… " he said, pointing through the window at each of them. "My nephews and nieces come to visit me", he added nervously, ashamed of himself, terrified that the shop assistant realised that he was the only to eat everything.

When he turned to look at another of the display cabinets, he froze, surprised to see who was sitting at the farthest and most hidden of the tables, gobbling up large slices of cakes. 


	7. Queen, Coloured pencils and muffins

Lestrade woke up with a start and closed his eyes tightly. He didn't want to get up. He just wanted to lie there, immobile, forever. 

The horror with which Mycroft looked at him for a few seconds, dropped the piece of cake and disappeared out the back door of the shop did not fade from his memory. 

He covered his face with a pillow remembering how he ran after him, only to find himself in a narrow, deserted cul-de-sac leading to a broader avenue. He reached it in time to see Mycroft running to his car. Lestrade called out to him, but Sherlock's brother accelerated even further to reach the car, got into it and drove off. 

He ran a few meters behind him on the pavement, shouting his name, but the car, with a squeal of brakes, turned a corner and disappeared at full speed. 

He stopped, panting from the race and from the anxiety that crept up inside him, curling around his chest and stomach. He went back to the shop, bought the muffins and, taking one big bite at a time, returned home. In the dark, depressed and desperate, he dropped to the ground and devoured the rest of the muffins, tears rolling down his cheeks. Once again, he ruined everything. 

A week had passed since then, and he had not heard from Mycroft again. After ten unanswered calls, he gave up calling him. It was clear that Sherlock's brother didn't want to hear from him again. Moreover, from that day on, he hadn't heard any more noise in Sherlock and John's flat either, as if they had vanished into thin air. 

Rubbing his eyes, he sat down on the cot, making a pile of snack bags fell to the floor. Barefoot and clinging to his copy of The Hidden Ring, he entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and drank a bottle of water in one go, trying to alleviate his throat dryness. 

His stomach was upset, and the smell of the food scraps from dishes stacked in the sink and scattered all over the flat didn't help alleviate it. Looking around, he felt depressed and disgusted with himself. He covered his face with his hands and drowned out a sob. God, just when everything seemed to be getting back on track, he returned to the point of fucking.... 

He clung even more to the book, wondering if everything that happened hadn't been a figment of his imagination if loneliness and despair led him to imagine them all, Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Irene and even Rosie. 

Ironically, the only thing that assured him that they were real was Alex's messages. Since Mycroft took over the case, his ex had not stopped texting to him every time his firm filed a brief with the court or responded to one of the many lawsuits. 

At first, they were conciliatory messages, " _We can't end up like this after five years together, "our story deserves a happier ending"_. When Lestrade did not respond, they became more angry and threatening, so much so that he had not read them anymore, flinching on the cot every time his phone buzzed.

He bent down again in front of the fridge. He was going to get an ice cream tub but stopped short, gaping, listening to the guitar chords that began to play out loud from Sherlock and John's flat. So loud that the walls resounded when the drums came in. 

Sherlock was listening to Highway to Hell. Lestrade knew it was him because the writer was singing at full throttle over Brian Johnson, imitating the torn voice of the AC/DC's vocalist, convinced that the music's volume covered his voice. Lestrade smiled, imagining him rumpled, swinging his body and head back and forth like a heavy metal singer. 

He straightened up, regretting not having the camera. It seemed to him that the writer was angry, though perhaps it was how he sang, especially in the second verse. 

_Hey Satan payin' my dues_

_playin' in a rocking band_

_Hey momma, look at me_

_I'm on my way to the Promised Land._

Instinctively Lestrade began to move his head, feeling the rhythm, and before he realised it, standing in the middle of the flat, intoxicated by the powerful music, playing an imaginary electric guitar, vocalising into a non-existent microphone, moving his body energetically. He would have liked to sing out loud, but he was afraid that Sherlock would hear him, although he was very doubtful that he could do so at the volume of the music. But even without singing, the music helped relieve some of the distress he had accumulated throughout that week. 

Anywhere else, the writer would already have the police pounding on his door for neighbours' complaints, but not in that building of broken souls who rarely played music. 

For a moment everything got silent, but soon the chords of Back in Black sounded.

Lestrade got carried away by the music, thinking it was the perfect soundtrack for his life at that time. Headlong into blackness again, at full speed without brakes.

But even with that sad thought, the music cheered him up a bit. Surprised, he noticed that he wanted to draw, as he did when, as a child, he felt sad or lonely. He then went into his room or out on the terrace and drew, tirelessly. Sometimes, the street in front of him. Other times, those magical worlds he dreamed of, the incredible adventures he wanted to live, his favourite movie's characters, and stroke after stroke, brushstroke after brushstroke, his sorrows dissolved like watercolours in water until they disappeared

He sat down slowly at the easel and began to sketch Mycroft's face from the day he met him. His intelligent gaze, the haughty, determined, inquisitive gesture, his attractive features.

He didn't quite understand how he felt so attracted to him from the very first moment when he had recently been crying over Alex. But Lestrade could not deny something about Mycroft that made her feel comfortable by his side.

Which was curious, because Mycroft was the exact opposite of the men he had always sought, with his piercing hard eyes and snubbed manners. For a sensitive guy like Lestrade, it wasn't easy to relate to them without getting hurt. 

But, especially after the conversation in John's office, he saw the heart the man tried so hard to hide. For some reason, he knew Mycroft would never hurt him. Something echoed inside him when he saw him, even when he cast that threatening look that stopped more than one heart, or spoke to him in that sharp tone. 

But now, everything had vanished. He had seen it in the look of horror that Mycroft had given him when he felt most vulnerable and scared. Perhaps the only person who had seen him like that. 

AC/DC gave way to Queen's One Vision, and Lestrade couldn't help but laugh out loud as he listened to Sherlock sing the chorus to Freddy Mercury, an octave lower, adapting the tone to his deep voice but somehow emulating Mercury's superb singing. 

He also liked Queen, so he left the charcoal for a moment and took up his imaginary guitar to accompany Sherlock and Freddy in their song, to change it for the drums when Roger Taylor began his solo. The energy of the music ran through his veins, removing the blackness that drowned him those days. 

He sat down again, humming Hammer to Fall, which filled his ears now. Next to the current Mycroft, he drew Sherlock as a child, imagining him at the age of eight or nine. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed, typing on a small typewriter he had on his knees. Around him, a pile of pages, written, some wrinkled, some blank, and the current Mycroft, standing next to him, looking at him with a mixture of affection and reproach for the mess he was creating. 

He sketched kid Sherlock's face, wrapped by the notes of Princess of the Universe, smiling amused at Sherlock singing a duet with Freddy at the top of his lungs over the devilishly quick notes of Brian May's guitar:

_"Yeah, Yeah, Alright let's go, let's go, haha, watch this man fly, Whoo, Bring on the girls, C'mon, C'mon, C'mon"._

While drawing the boy's face details, focusing on what he was writing, he thought about how strong his vocation, desire, or rather almost vital need of writing was, to achieve to become a writer despite all the fear and his father's beating to frustrate his vocation. And that was just what John had told him. Drawing his dishevelled curly hair, Greg couldn't help think of the horrors Sherlock kept to himself, that haunted him every night when he went to bed, filling his nightmares. 

He thought of himself. All his life, he had acted as the others expected of him, without listening to himself. To avoid arguments, confrontations... always trying to please other's, with fear of dissonance, the panic of rejection, of being different. Exactly as he did with Alex, and when he felt abandoned, sad or rejected, he hid behind tons of food. 

The music in Sherlock's flat changed radically, giving way to one of the few opera pieces that Lestrade knew, the Queen of the Night Aria, from Mozart's The Magic Flute. 

Giving the finishing touches to the sketch, he could help to snort at the eclectic musical taste of the youngest Holmes, feeling all the aria's power and strength invading him, catapulted by the soprano's mastery in singing that impossible phraseos and scales. 

Then, right at the climax of the aria, when the Queen of the night "Hört, hört, hört! in alternation with loud chords from the orchestra, ignited for the aria's grandiosity, he stopped drawing. If Sherlock had been able to send his father off and become a writer, he will do the same with Alex and fate and would start a new life for himself. 

He needed to clear his mind, and he couldn't do it in that in the suffocating and depressing flat. So he put on the sportswear he finally found in one of the boxes and decided to go for a run. But this time, because he wanted to, not because Alex was growling at him because he was getting fat. 

He went out and walked at a fast pace towards the park. At eleven in the morning, he hoped it would be full of runners so he could go unnoticed among them. Once there, he started to run. One minute later, he had to stop and walk, panting like an old locomotive, trying to catch his breath. He was in a terrible shape. 

"Hi, Greg!"

Rosie's cheerful singing voice made him straighten up and adopt as dignified and sporty a posture as possible, ignoring the flatus's pain and trying to modulate his breathing. 

Greg swallowed. To see her again was to reconnect with all that he lived through the past week, a proof that it was all real. Rosie's smiling face brought him out of the black hole for good. 

"Hello, what are you doing here?" he asked, and mentally rolled his eyes at his stupidity.

"I have something to do with Sherlock, and I took the opportunity to go for a walk in the park. It's sunny and not too cold. And you, are you out for a run?"

"Yes, yes, well...., more or less" he blushed "something like that". 

Rosie laughed amused. 

"If you're done, we can go there together," she offered, her laptop bag clinging from her shoulder. 

Greg smiled. 

"I'd love to". 

He felt good. Rosie's smile reflected that she thought Greg was a good guy, kind and sincere. They started to walk, chatting quietly. 

"I thought Sherlock and your father left the flat. I haven't heard them for a long time". 

Rosie shook her head.

"Dad had to go to New York for a surgery and didn't want Sherlock to be left alone" she rolled her eyes, amused "when he writes he forgets to eat, to sleep... and that's why he came to Uncle Myc's house with me".

Greg nodded, remembering what John had said when they had breakfast together, although he assumed that it was also related to the fact that his father was looking for him. He had to remember that Rosie knew nothing. 

"Dad went back to the hospital this morning, and Sherlock ran back to the flat". 

They were about to leave the park when they turned, listening to footsteps approaching them rapidly. Lestrade saw Rosie frowning in disgust at the sight of the tall, sturdy, dark man who came them at a fast pace. 

"Sebastian, go to hell," she said, turning and quickening her pace. 

"Come on, Rosie, that's no way to talk to your stepfather," replied the man, running to catch up with her. 

Lestrade blinked. So this was the obnoxious prick who wanted to blow up Sherlock's presentation. He disliked him immediately, with his feigned sympathy and his mellifluous, condescending way of talking to the girl. 

"You are not my stepfather. You are nothing to me. Leave me alone. 

"He told you to leave her alone," intervened Lestrade, and stood between the two of them. 

"And who asked you? What do you do, going to the parks to pick up teenagers?" Sebastian spat him out aggressively, giving him a good shove with his hands on his chest, making the painter back off.

"Don't worry, Greg, I can handle this" she turned to the man. "Fuck you, Sebastian," she grunted in a way that reminded Lestrade of John. 

"Your parents should teach you some manners, Rosie". 

"Miss Watson-Holmes to you. And now leave us alone or..." 

"Or what? Are you going to call your daddy to help you?"

Her face became stormy with rage. She stepped forward a few steps, followed by Lestrade, leaving Sebastian behind. But instead of giving up, he ran back to her and put a hand on her shoulder to force her to turn around.

With a quick movement, Rosie pulled his hand away, put her leg behind the man's, making him lose his balance and kneeling, hold him by the neck and crushed his head against the pavement, to Lestrade's amazement. 

"You are hurting me," he grunted, trying to get out of it, not understanding how someone so seemingly fragile had so quickly reduced him. 

"Harm is what I'll do if you ever bother Sherlock or me again," Rosie grunted, letting him go. 

"You are just like your father," Sebastian snarled with contempt, getting up in an effort and Rosie smiled proudly. 

"Do you want to report him?" asked Greg. 

"Report me? I should report her! She threw me to the ground..."

"If I ever see you harassing her again, I'll report you, do you understand?" Greg threatened him, standing between the two. 

The man backed down, banging his knee pads to clean them. Then he stood up and adjusted his jacket. He took a few steps away, and when he was at a safe distance, he turned back to the girl. 

"Tell Sherlock I will give him a big, long hug at the presentation," he promised, smiling like a shark. 

"You son of a..." shouted Rosie, hurling herself at him. 

Greg held her down, stopping her. 

"Don't let him provoke you," he advised. "He wants to get you out of your head. It's his Pyrrhic victory. It's best to ignore him". 

"Why does he do that?" Rosie wiped away tears of rage, "Why doesn't he leave him alone? Sherlock hasn't done anything to him!"

"He's jealous of him," sighed Greg. "When faced with talent, people can admire it and try to learn from it or envy it and try to destroy it. Even more so in the case of that idiot who has none".

"I should have given him a good punch," growled Rosie. 

"And he would have reported you. He just wants to provoke you, that's all. He knows he's getting on your nerves and he enjoys it".

"Fucking jealous piece of shit..."

Greg shook his head, biting his lip to keep from laughing, as the two of them walked back to the flat.

"Where did you learn to do that? 

Rosie chuckled. 

"In Sherlock's martial arts and self-defence classes. Dad thought I could use it, and Sherlock obviously couldn't train with a stranger, so... Besides, it was a lot of fun. And it turned out to be really useful." she smiled, proudly. 

The painter bit his lips for a few moments. 

"Will you teach me?"

Rosie looked at him, surprised. Lestrade was tall and strong and didn't look like the kind of guy who would need personal defence classes.

She nodded. 

"I'd be happy to". 

"Great, thanks".

They walked in comfortable silence.

"Are you going to keep Sherlock company?" he asked a few seconds later. 

"Company?" she laughed. "As I said, Sherlock, when he writes, he gets so into his world that he doesn't realise whether you're by his side or not. No, he's helping me with something". 

"Okay, okay, it's a secret. I get it". 

They walked a few more metres. Rosie looked at him sideways, undecided, until she finally talked.

"Greg I..., I don't want you to think I'm a busybody but..., Uncle Myc, like Sherlock, are very clever at a lot of things, but not about their sentiments". 

He looked at her without understanding. 

"What I mean is... sometimes you have to help them even if they don't ask for help. You have to give them a..., a little push in the right direction. They get lost with feelings if you know what I mean". 

Listening to her and seeing her worried, friendly face, Greg decided that he didn't want to lose all that. Life was somehow giving him a weird second chance, and he couldn't lose it. 

What he came up with frightened him. Maybe it would all go to hell if he tried to force things, but he had let himself go for too long at Alex's side. 

She waited patiently. He ran his hand through his short, greyish hair, nervously. 

"You... could you give me Mycroft's address?"

Rosie smiled. 

"Are you thinking of going to see him?

"Something like that".

"Who has secrets now?"

Both chuckled.

"But first I have to take a shower and change my clothes." 

"Okay, when you are ready to come home. Sherlock will give you a note for Rofer" she said, walking to the flat. 

"Roger?"

"We will explain it to you". 

A little later, showered, shaved and dressed, Greg knocked on Sherlock's door. 

He recognised Rosie's quick steps approaching and heard the chair crawling. She opened, smiling, Sherlock was behind her, barefoot, the computer open and his face a mixture of surprise, concern, and annoyance.

Lestrade observed his hair, totally dishevelled after the music session, just as he had imagined it when he painted it as a child, watching the sharp and fascinating writer's eyes that he had not yet been able to define whether they were green or blue.

John's daughter stepped aside to let him in, while Sherlock turned down the music, this time on violin and orchestra with a controller, greeting him with a nod. 

"Sorry to interrupt you while working but...," he started, insecurity engulfing him again "but, Rosie told me..." he cleared his throat, noticing the writer narrowing his eyes looking at him. 

Without saying anything, he turned to the table and picked up a piece of paper. Greg looked at the wall where he had seen the list of targets, unable to suppress a smile as he remembered that he thought they were real victims. 

Post-its' wall was much larger than before, the wall wholly multicoloured, full of blue, green, pink, orange, and now yellow notes, wrote in capital letters, in clear handwriting. The blue notes corresponded to the characters. The purple ones, to their relationships: co-workers, partners, former partner, detective, forensic, etc. The green records showed places: Chris's house, morgue, student's home, fortune teller's house..., police station. The orange ones, the targets - Phoebe King, Anne Adam, and the yellow ones were additions to the plot.

Greg looked at them enraptured. He could not believe that he was witnessing the development of one of W. Scott's novels that he admired so much, as it was built step by step, from a small idea in Sherlock's head to a mural covering entirely one of the apartment walls. 

But it seemed not enough, because on the opposite wall there were more colourful notes around a blank sheet, although handwritten in a different font, surely Rosie's. 

Greg smiled to himself, imagining both of them talking about the novel, perhaps adding a new plot, because Henry Knight, the name written on the sheet from which the notes were taken, was not on the target's list on the other side. 

He looked back at the table, where, next to the laptop, there was an open notebook, this one, full of incomprehensible scribbles, no doubt notes taken in a hurry by Sherlock, ideas that he used later for his book, and the same name appeared on it.

Before he could take a closer look, the writer slammed it shut, startling him. 

"Here you go", he said, annoyed. 

Greg looked at the yellow paper on the table. 

"What's that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft's address, obviously". 

"Roger", said Rosie. 

Sherlock nodded. 

"Give this to Roger when he tells you he is not at home" he ordered, scribbling another note quickly. 

"Roger?"

"Mycroft's butler" clarified Rosie "You just give him the note". 

The writer inspired and watched him, exasperated. 

"And now go. We are working". 

"Sherlock..." 

The writer turned to her. Greg smiled, amused. Rosie's tone was the same John used when the writer skipped over all the social labels, saying or doing something a bit not good. He wrinkled his nose and shrugged as an apology. Rosie smiled.

"We are on a case investigation," she explained, affably. 

"Oh, I'll leave you to your work then. Thank you". 

Lestrade opened the door and was just about to leave when Sherlock's voice, this time in a much softer, quieter tone, stopped him. 

"Greg, Mycroft is not as strong as he thinks he is". 

Lestrade nodded, moved. He understood the request locked within him, even if the writer could not formulate it: don't hurt him. 

Excited and disconcerted at the same time, he went down to the street and hailed a cab.

When it stopped at the address Sherlock had given him, he looked at the enormous residential house with his mouth open, a bit scared, swallowing hard. He looked at himself, in his jeans and his old checkered shirt. But he had arrived there, and it was not a moment to turn back, so he got out of the taxi, paid the driver, took a breath and ringed the bell. 

A man in his sixties opened the door and looked at him up and down with a critical eye. Lestrade understood then the note Sherlock gave him. The man would not hesitate to kick him out. 

"I would like to see Mycroft Holmes," he said, wishing his voice trembled a bit less. 

The man threw a new look from bottom to top, which made Lestrade instinctively run his hand through his hair, trying to be as presentable as possible. 

"Mr Holmes is not here," he replied sharply. 

"Sherlock, his brother, gave me this for you". 

The man raised an eyebrow, making it clear that he didn't believe him. But when he opened the note and read it, he smiled affably.

"Wait a moment, please". 

Lestrade nodded, wondering if it was Mycroft's habit to keep guests waiting in the street. 

A few moments later, he returned with a contrite gesture. 

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes has a lot of work and will not be able to receive you." 

"I will wait." 

The man shook his head and disappeared inside the house, closing the door. Lestrade sat down on one of the steps. He spent some time watching people pass by, racking his brains, looking for a way for Mycroft to let him in. Soon he had an idea and knocked again. 

"Mr Holmes..." Roger started. 

"Yes, I know, I know. Could you lend me some papers and coloured pencils?"

The butler looked at him as if he asked for a blue unicorn. 

"I'm not sure we have that at home, sir. Let me check." 

For an hour, the man gave no sign of life. Lestrade imagined him searching every drawer in the huge residence, undoubtedly looking for what he least expected to find in Mycroft Holmes' house. Tired of sitting around, he got down on the pavement and walked in front of the door, looking at the facade and the surroundings, but not too far away, in case Mycroft or Roger showed up. 

On one of his short walks, he saw a car slowly approaching. He climbed to the top of the stairs, near the door, fearing it was some security team members who had been alerted by the neighbours, noticing him wandering around for so long. 

As he feared, the vehicle stopped in front of him. But instead of a security member, a boy in his twenties appeared, dressed in an immaculate blue suit, with a package in his hands. 

"Gregory Lestrade?"

He nodded. 

"A package for you". 

"For me? But how did you...?"

"My instructions are bringing it to you, nothing else," he replied, disappearing into the car. 

Lestrade sat down on one of the steps and opened it, unwrapping the contents, looking at the black wooden case with a scowl. 

He ran almost out of breath when he opened it and saw the one hundred and twenty Faber Castell Polychromos coloured pencils, arranged on two floors. Unbelieving, he took one of them with devotion, afraid of breaking it. 

He put one of the papers from the packaging on the floor to prevent the box from getting dirty and left it on top, to continue examining the parcel content: a pencil sharpener, two white erasers, a set of artistic drawing pencils and a drawing pad.

He rubbed his mouth, bemused, almost frightened, looking at all the material, the dream of any artist. Since he was a child he had loved the boxes of coloured pencils but that..., that was another level. The level at which Mycroft Holmes did things: instantly and the best. 

He held out one hand, brushing the crayons gently with his fingertips, afraid to ruin them. He felt a little dizzy, overwhelmed, wanting to cry and laugh simultaneously, not sure if it was all just a dream. In any case, he did not want to wake up.

With a trembling hand, he took one of the black drawing pencils and opened the pad. He settled down on the step, resting his back on the facade, resting the block on his bent leg and began to draw, trying to remember all the details of what he had in mind. 

A few hours later, after completing eight different drawings, he shook his hand to relax it and looked around. It was starting to get dark, and he was hungry, but he wasn't going to move from there until Mycroft let him in. 

He put the pad down carefully. The sheets of onion paper between the drawing sheets prevented the pictures from smearing. He stood up to disentangle himself and walked to the edge of the pavement, keeping his eyes on the pencils and other material. 

He had just sat down again when Rogeropened the door. Lestrade looked at him hopefully, but the butler shook his head. He lowered his head, a bit down, wondering if it all made sense or was worth anything he looked with surprise at the tray with water and sandwiches that he was holding for him. Though he was thirsty and hungry, he waved it away. 

"Tell him I won't eat or drink until he lets me in". 

The man sighed. 

"Son, you don't know how obstinate Mr Holmes can be". 

"And he doesn't know how stubborn I can be". 

The man nodded, his face serious, but Lestrade saw the approval and admiration reflected in his eyes before he disappeared behind the door. 

Lestrade sat down again. He had been a fool. At least he could have taken the water. But he was determined to keep his word. 

Where did that determination come from, he had no idea. He was not the kind of man to grow up in the face of difficulties, or at least he had stopped being one since he got married. He became more and more pusillanimous, more and more fearful, and more and more reluctant to face up to everyday life. He shrank at any challenge and even more at any refusal. 

But drawing helped him not to think and to connect with his instinct, to listen to himself again. And that encouraged him to go ahead with his plan. 

Absorbed in the following drawing, he realised that, for days, when he thought about Alex, he always remembered something he had lost by his side: painting, friends, courage... 

Interestingly, he hadn't realised this when he was living with him. Somehow, he took it for granted, as a necessary sacrifice to be with him, to not lose him, to prevent Alex from leaving him, as he often threatened him, repeating that it would be nothing without him. 

He had considered himself more or less happy in his marriage, or at least on the days when Alex was not angry. Then Lestrade would get back the man he had fallen in love with, and he would again have illusions that everything would be fine from then on, that Alex would never be angry too, that he would love him also.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories, noticing the anxiety returning. He breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the drawing, starting to feel unsure of what he was doing. For a moment he feared Mycroft appeared and kicked him out. 

Still scared, he did not stop painting. The pencils anchored him to reality within the tangle of thoughts that ran through his brain at that moment, concentrating on capturing on the sheet the multiple tiny folds of the rising figure he was drawing, relaxing again. 

By the time he finished, it was getting dark. Carefully, he tore the last page from his pad and began to write. From time to time he looked at the street, already deserted except for some cabs and cars, fighting to find the right words, to express precisely what he wanted to say. He was embarrassed and even a little afraid. Letting it all out made him vulnerable; it would be easy to hurt him, perhaps to despise him. But he continued to write. He crossed out, smudged, rewrote, and copied the text onto a new sheet of paper until satisfied. 

He gently knocked on the door. He didn't expect them to hear him, because it was almost one o'clock in the morning. But after a few moments, Roger appeared behind the door. God, that man never slept?

Before he said anything, he gave him the drawings, the sheet he wrote hiding between them. 

"Could you give him this?"

"Go home, son." 

Lestrade shook his head. The butler smiled slightly and disappeared behind the door. The painter huddled against it, regretting not having a jacket until, lulled into a strange tranquillity, he fell asleep. 

"For God's sake, Gregory, will you go inside at once?!"

Mycroft's exasperated and surprised voice woke him up at dawn. Standing beside him in black gym clothes, the elder Holmes watched him with a mixture of glee and disbelief. 

Without waiting for him, he went back inside. Lestrade got up and followed him through the long corridor, slackening off at every turn. 

When he crossed the door of the room where Mycroft entered, he stopped in his tracks, gazing at the enormous two-storey library, built entirely of mahogany, including the elegant spiral staircase that linked the two floors, the numerous shelves covered with books. Lestrade was not a connoisseur, but he was fond enough of reading to know that many of the copies he could see were first editions, carefully and lovingly preserved.

"Is this true?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the drawings he set on a nearby glass table beside the letter Lestrade wrote. 

In the first two drawings, he had drawn muffins. In another, chocolate biscuits and chips. In the rest, mixed, hamburgers, pasta, chocolates, kinds of snacks, cheeses, mayonnaise, mashed potatoes, pizzas, ...

Lestrade nodded. 

"This is what I ate yesterday when I got home," he said, pointing to the first two. Then he pointed to the next ones as he spoke: "And the day before yesterday I ate all the biscuits and French fries I had at home. Packages. Since I married Alex, every time I binged, I ate everything you see in the others".

Mycroft blinked, and the painter would have sworn he was in shock. A few seconds later, he looked at him and then at the drawings alternately, processing the information, deducing. For a second, Lestrade saw his eyes glowing with tears, which Mycroft quickly made disappear, but the hard, defensive gaze was softened by understanding. 

"I thought you came to tell me that you never wanted to see me again," he mused, embarrassed and dejected. 

Lestrade was tempted to run and hug him and comfort him, but he knew it wasn't a good idea. Yet. 

"Why? For eating some cakes? Because when you feel so much pain that you think you will break, you eat until it's gone? Because when depression pulls you down so hard that you feel drowning, you take refuge in food? Welcome to the club, idiot". 

Mycroft looked at him, puzzled, and Lestrade feared to have gone too far. He doubted people who just met him spoke to him like that. 

After a few moments, the lawyer invited him to sit in an armchair in front of him with a gesture. They were there in silence for a few moments. Understanding that Mycroft was not able to start, Lestrade decided to speak. 

"I started binge shortly after I began dating Alex. At first, it was just ice cream, a couple of chocolates... but, little by little, food became my comfort every time we argued. He said things that hurt me but I..., and sometimes..." he shook his head "I ate more and more to get through it all. Since then, and especially since I discovered about his marriage with Tom, I can't stop eating". 

Mycroft watched him silently. As if in John's office, he spoke, looking out the window. 

"It's been years since I binged for the last time. I was in therapy, and I was able to manage. But yesterday, as I left John's office... our conversation stirred up too many memories, too much pain and..., and I couldn't think of any other than eating. And when I saw you... I thought you would be disgusted with me".

Lestrade chuckled sadly. He knew precisely how Mycroft felt. He had experienced it many times. 

"That's what Alex told me when he rarely caught me sneaking a meal. That I was disgusting. But I never thought... I thought it only happened to you yesterday". 

Mycroft smiled sadly and shook his head. 

"It started when we lived at my parents' house. When we ate alone, Sherlock and I with them, it was worse than when there were guests. As children, we ate slowly, or we didn't want to eat, or we didn't like something... and my father quickly lost his patience. He shouted and punched heavily at the table. Sherlock, terrified, fearing that this was the prelude to a beating, threw up on the plate in pure panic," he closed his eyes. "My father forced him to eat it". 

"Jesus Christ" murmured Lestrade, horrified. 

"There came a time when Sherlock could hardly eat. To prevent my father from hitting him, I started eating mine and his plate. I gobbled up at full speed and developed a conjuring skill to take it off his plate and put it on mine or change it for Sherlock when my father got up to get a cigarette or yell at the cook. Thant was when discovered that stuffing myself with food made the fear and anxiety disappear. I ate more and more, and Sherlock refused more and more to eat".

He pursed his lips. 

"I started to eat in secret, especially at night. I went into the kitchen and ate as much as I could until I felt physically ill but emotionally calm. Then I went back to bed and finally achieved to get some sleep".

Lestrade nodded. 

"I did that too, especially when we had an argument or Alex was angry with me. When he had fallen asleep at night, I went down to the basement, which was full of old junk and my paintings. I hid my chocolate and food loot in an old biscuit box, and I couldn't stop until I felt better, and then I went back to bed. And it was becoming more and more frequent and in greater quantity".

Mycroft nodded slightly.

"I had more or less managed to control it until I was sixteen. When I left the house, at eighteen, I weighed over a hundred and sixty kilos. In fact, I didn't know what I weighed, because I had thrown away the scale a long time ago".

Lestrade watched him in surprise at the change. Mycroft must not have weighed half as much now. 

The older Holmes looked down at the floor and sighed, smoothing out a small crease in his trousers. 

"In my house, of course, nobody talked about it. My mother just bought me bigger and bigger clothes and smaller and smaller to Sherlock. As if it was the most normal thing in the world. As if it wasn't obvious what was going on. 

Lestrade nodded. It was comforting to finally be able to talk about it openly, without fear of rejection. Discovering that this was also happening to others, he was not a weirdo, and it was only happening to him relieved hm. He could also read the same relief on Mycroft's face, although it was more related to Lestrade understanding him. If he did therapy, he had already talked about it then, unlike him, who always kept it to himself. 

"Alex just criticised when I gained weight. Then I killed myself to exercise, to lose weight and to get back in shape because he...". 

Lestrade left the phrase in the air, unable to finish it because of the lump in his throat. Mycroft scrutinised him and nodded slightly, understanding the unspoken words. 

He turned back to the window, looking at the roses in the garden. 

"When Mrs Hudson hired me, I started to get better, to have fewer binges, but all that went to hell with the trial. I couldn't stop eating, especially when Sherlock's phobias and nightmares got worse. I was afraid I had made a mistake".

"But you did the right thing by reporting your father for abuse to you and Sherlock."

"Yes, I know, but it didn't stop it from being hell. Martha was the one who advised us to go to therapy. Of course, I decided that I didn't need help, that no one had to know what was happening to me, so I found Sherlock a therapist. We went from one incompetent with a title on the wall to another, until Mrs Turner, a friend of Martha, recommended us Anthea. She was her daughter's friend and just started her career. Sherlock didn't want to go. He was fed up with stupid therapists who had no fucking idea what was happening to him. They were even more stupid than the school psychologists". 

Lestrade snorted. 

"Anthea turned out to be perfect. From the beginning, she realised right away that talking was not Sherlock's style. She tried to convince him that the therapy was a two-way relationship, that she could not help him unless he completely opened himself to her. But my brother didn't say anything. He didn't talk. He just sat in the chair, staring at a fixed point on the wall, letting time pass, as he had done with the others. None of them, except her, noticed that he was completely blocked".

He shook his head and half-smiled. 

"After three sessions, Anthea called me into her office, because she couldn't find a way to get Sherlock to talk. After we finished, she advised me to go to therapy too because my relationship with food was not healthy. I laughed in her face and asked her if she needed any clients. I was in control and could stop eating when I wanted to," he ironically said. 

Greg nodded, understanding. He had felt the same way every time he thought his binges were getting out of control.

He smirked, rubbing his thighs, embarrassed. 

"And did you go to some compulsive eaters' anonymous meeting or something?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow so high that Greg thought it would slip out of his face. 

"Can you really see me with a bunch of strangers telling them about my life? 

Greg smiled, shaking his head. 

"And then?

"What Anthea said made me think, even though I kept fooling myself: I'm in control. The big lie all addicts tell ourselves. And we don't realise that it's the drugs, the alcohol, the gambling or the food that controls us. A couple of weeks later, I asked her what she recommended me to do". 

He smiled, bowing his head. 

"She said she would tell me if I gave her a clue on how to get to Sherlock".

Greg chuckled, amused. 

"I told him that before... that he liked to write. And in return, she advised me to read several books on food addiction and binge eating disorder and gave me a card with the phone number of one of her colleagues specialised in addictions. She told me to make an appointment when I was ready. Of course, she couldn't treat me while treating Sherlock and we wouldn't have allowed it". 

He looked at Lestrade. 

"In the next session, Anthea, instead of asking Sherlock to speak, asked him to write down what he couldn't tell her, as it happened or as a story, with him or someone else as the protagonist. Whatever he wanted, as long as he did it by hand, for the mind-hand connection and how the brain processes traumatic experiences by writing them down, she said".

He smiled at the memory. 

"I bought Sherlock a packet of sheets of papers and a pen and told him that they were only for writing what Anthea asked him, only for therapy. For two months he didn't touch them. He still went to see her every week without opening his mouth. But she was patient. Until, one day, he started writing on them". 

He swallowed hard, blinking, tears welling up in her eyes. 

"I don't know how Anthea could understand what Sherlock wrote. His handwriting is evil, he cried while writing, and the tears smeared the ink... I was not sure that this would do him any good. He was decayed, crying his eyes out while writing or tearing up the sheets... Anthea explained to me that this was part of the process. She answered him in writing too, because reading also has a therapeutic impact, so they did all the therapy. And it worked because Sherlock got better from his phobias, panic... everything". 

He inhaled deeply.

"When I saw that it was working on him, I started to write too. With the help of a therapist from Anthea's cabinet, little by little, I became aware of everything I wanted to cover up and bury under the food, and I stopped needing it. I learned to notice why I binged and what I was eating because my head seemed to disconnect from my body when I started to binge. And, one day I realised that the same packet of sweets had been in the pantry for more than a month, and I, who saw it every day when I took out my coffee, had not touched it. 

"I don't think I can make it," mused Lestrade, looking at the drawings. 

"I thought the same. I tried to stop a thousand times. Name any diet that exists and I assure you that I had done it. Sometimes during a month, sometimes a day, and it always ended into a binge".

Greg listened to him with his mouth open, noticing something warm stirring inside him, how Mycroft's words had a remarkable echo in his heart, not only for the content but also for the gentle way he was speaking. 

"And why yesterday? I mean, if you've known for two months that your father is looking for Sherlock..."

Lestrade realised it as he spoke. There was something that Mycroft didn't tell them yesterday, something he was sure even John didn't know. 

"Is that what made Sherlock stop writing?"

The elder Holmes nodded. Lestrade thought for a moment he would tell him, but then there was a knock at the door, and Roger came in. 

"Sir, your brother is here. He says both of you should come down," he announced.

"Why?"

He shrugged. 

"He says Doctor Watson needs a lawyer. He's in NYS with DI Donovan". 

Mycroft jumped up. Lestrade remembered that she was the one watching Siger. 

Concerned, Mycroft ran out, grabbed his jacket, and followed by Lestrade, they went out into the street, where a huge black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon was waiting for them. Sherlock, with a preoccupied air, in the driver's seat, while Rosie, in the co-driver seat, visibly upset, looked at Lestrade in annoyance. 

"What's going on?" asked Mycroft when the two of them were settled in the back, and Sherlock drove off at full speed. 

"Donovan called. It's John. He's in custody in NYS."

Rosie turned to Greg, furious. 

"If you hadn't said anything to Dad, this wouldn't have happened," she growled. 

"Rosamund, watch your tone!" Mycroft scolded her. 

"Gavin has nothing to do with it," replied Sherlock, glancing sideways at his brother and Greg and smirking. 

They looked at each other puzzled. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"Oh Good Lord, he will call you anything but your name from now," he said to Lestrade. He turned to Rosie. "What's happened, young lady?" 

"Nothing happened. You are making a mountain out of nothing! I already took care of that son of a..." 

"Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes, don't you dare finish that sentence!," shouted Mycroft. 

She fell silent, turned around and crossed her arms, sulking, looking at the windshield in such anger that Lestrade thought it would melt. 

"You know you should have told us," Sherlock intervened in a soft tone, stopping at a traffic light. "We agreed that if Sebastian was bothering you, you have to inform us. Because this is not the first time he tried to talk with you, is it?"

Rosie, still fuming, shook her head imperceptibly. 

"And what did you think your father was going to do when he came in, invite him to a cuppa?" continued the writer, starting the engine again.

The girl shrugged, but her angry expression gave way to a more contrite one.

"I know better than anyone that you can defend yourself perfectly," continued Sherlock and the girl smiled half-heartedly, "but that's not the point, you know that, right?

Rosie nodded reluctantly. 

"How did Dad find out? If Greg hasn't told him..." she finally asked. 

"Your mother called him. Apparently, the jerk came home complaining that you hurt him" the writer replied with delight, and Rosie snorted. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Greg smiled. They were a match made in heaven. 

"But don't argue with your father now, okay? He is now like a volcano about to erupt, and we don't want him to explode," he warned parking in front of NSY. 

Rosie nodded. 

If Lestrade had to describe DI Donovan, friendly and nice wouldn't be two of the adjectives he used, given the grim, frowning and jaded gesture she made behind her desk. Nor cowardly or scared, because they heard her arguing with a mad John who managed to regain his self-control when Sherlock and Rosie came in and remained imperturbable in the face of an angry John Watson who, with clenched fists, sizzling out of his eyes in a manner very similar to Rosie's, wandered around the office like a caged lion. Mycroft, Greg, and Rosie sat at the table, and Sherlock stood on one of the walls.

"May I know what happened to my client?" asked Mycroft in a professional tone. 

"Here, Dirty Harry" Donovan gestured towards John "beat Sebastian Wilkes up". 

"That jerk harassed my daughter" he snarled. "And it turns out that it was not the first time, but that he has been following her for several days, something that my daughter decided to keep quiet" he finished, throwing Rosie an upset look that the girl openly ignored. 

"And now this guy reported you for assault and threats," Donovan said, taking a report. "According to his statement, Dr Watson approached him as he was about to get into his car, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, slammed him against the car, beat him and threatened to take his head off if he came within a kilometre of his daughter again". 

"It was not a threat" growled John "it was a promise that...".

"Dr Watson just wants to protect his daughter..." Mycroft cut him off with a warning look. "Gregory Lestrade can testify to that, although I sense there's no need of it".

Donovan leaned forward on the table, looking up and down at the painter and then fixing his gaze in the neurosurgeon.

"Look John, I know this is a difficult time", she said in a conciliatory tone, looking sideways at Rosie and Sherlock "And I know you just want to protect her, as your lawyer says. Off the record, I'll tell you that I would have acted the same way if she had been my daughter, but you can't go around smashing everyone's face who comes near her or anyone in your family" she ended, looking at him intentionally. 

John twisted the gesture, opened his mouth, but thought better of it and closed it. Donovan exchanged a look with him, and the neurosurgeon turned to Sherlock. 

"Can you take Rosie to the car?"

"But Dad!"

"John..."

"Take Rosie to the car!" he shouted in an exasperated tone. 

Sherlock flinched, looking at him in disbelief. Rosie threw her father an angry look and stood up. 

"Let's go, Sherlock," she said, and both left the room. 

Once they were out, John looked at Mycroft, dejected. 

"I hate having had to do this to him" he muttered.

'I know. He will understand it, John" Mycroft tried to comfort him.

Both turned to Donovan.

"I hope it's important".

"As you know, we are watching Moriarty as a way to find Siger. This morning he followed you, Greg, and then you and Rosie. This means that Moriarty, and therefore Siger, know about Rosie". 

"I..... I'm sorry, no...." Greg stammered, desolated.

"Don't worry. Moriarty is a professional. It's impossible to detect him even less so with the Wilkes' incident" Mycroft calmed him, unable to hide his concern. 

"Wilkes was a decoy?" asked John frowning, worried and angry. 

"We don't know, but, if he is, he and Moriarty and therefore Siger are, if not in cahoots, at least related in some way". 

There was silence in the office. John's gesture became even more threatening. 

"I will put her under surveillance, but for now, I advise you to limit her movements as much as possible. Al least until the presentation" Donovan continued. "And don't go beating anyone who gets near Sherlock or Rosie, John. In prison, you won't do your husband and daughter any good. Do you know what I mean?"

John nodded, opening and closing his hand nervously.

"Can we go now?"

"Of course". 

They got into the car where Sherlock and Rosie were waiting for them. In silence, John sat in the co-drivers seat. Rosie was in the back seat between Mycroft and Greg. Sherlock started quietly and headed for the flat. A few seconds later, the neurosurgeon turned to his daughter. 

"You are off the case". 

"But Dad! It's not fair!" I just..."

"I said you're out, the matter is settled." 

Rosie looked at him and then looked away, crossing her arms, a sulking and annoyed gesture on her face. Sherlock glanced at his husband and bit his lower lip. Greg realized he knew something was wrong.

"Gregory, next week we'll start preparing for the trial," said Mycroft once Sherlock stopped the car in front of the apartment building, avoiding looking at his brother, which, Lestrade was sure, did not go unnoticed by the writer. 

He nodded, gulping audibly. He was terrified at the thought of confronting Alex. 

"Don't worry. Everything will be fine. I'll be by your side," he said affectionately. He mouthed thank you, and Greg winked at him and smiled, making him blush. 

He turned to his brother, who gazed at him with a mocking smile. 

"Next week we will also begin rehearsals for the book presentation". 

The writer's smile faded, and he groaned. 

"And could we...?"

"No", replied Mycroft, John and Rosie in chorus. 

The neurosurgeon got out of the vehicle, followed by Sherlock. Rosie sighed, got out and walked up to them, head down. 

"Dad..."

"No, I'm sorry, Rosie. I made it very clear to you that I wanted to know. We better talk later. I'm too angry now to listen to you," replied John, turning around and disappearing into the hall. 

Rosie looked at Sherlock, hopeful. 

"Will you talk to him?"

The writer nodded. 

"Give him time. He was anxious about you" he replied in a conciliatory tone.

Rosie nodded, understanding and repentant. Sherlock waved her goodbye and disappeared behind John. 

Mycroft and Greg got out of the vehicle and stood face to face, gawking. 

"Thank you... for... well, what you have done". 

The painter smiled. 

"To you for opening the door for me". 

Both chuckled, looking at the black sedan that was coming to pick him and Rosie up. 

The girl got in, and Mycroft walked to the vehicle. Before getting in, he turned around. 

"Gregory, does the name Henry Knight ring a bell? Was he an acquaintance of Alex's?"

The painter shook his head, puzzled. 

"No, but Sherlock had it written on his wall, why?"

"I'll explain later. I will call you tomorrow."

The painter nodded and smiled shyly, entering the building. 

Mycroft stared at him and smiled as he got into the car, under her niece's amused gaze.

"What?

"Nothing. 

"You're grounded." 

Rosie snorted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the [music](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSsC2LabgSYtZJFACS3XqC0TyLwhFcxz-) Sherlock listen to  
> I chose YouTube because Queen's videos are fabulous  
> Enjoy it!!


	8. Interrogations, findings and reherseals

"Get up; we have to go." 

Lestrade closed his eyes tightly, ignoring what was undoubtedly the beginning of another nightmare. It was the only possible explanation for Sherlock's voice echoing next to his bed. 

"I'm going to take a picture of your flat and show it to John the next time he complains that I'm messy," the nightmare continued mockingly. 

He blinked. It was not a dream. Sherlock was indeed standing by his bed, looking at him with deep intensity, dressed in a casual black blazer over a dark blue t-shirt, his usual black jeans and sneakers. 

"How on earth…?" Lestrade almost yelled, instinctively covering himself with the sheet remembering he was naked. 

"Don't be so squeamish. There's nothing you have that I haven't already seen," mocked the writer. 

"How... how did you get in?"

"Researching for my third novel, I learned to open doors with a lock pick. And the ones in this building are elementary to manipulate". 

He rummaged among the pots piled up in the sink, carefully moving the dirty dishes and glasses with stuck leftovers, looking indeed for a coffee maker. 

"Get dressed; we have to go", he repeated, exasperated,

Lestrade blushed, mortified. After his stampede on the third day of preparation for the first lawsuit against Alex, he felt powerless to clean up. Depressing, messy and disgusting were the mildest adjectives that could be applied to his apartment. He wasn't aware until that moment that he was living in a hovel. 

John did not exaggerate when he said the work capacity of Holmes' brothers was superhuman. While Lestrade, Irene, and other law firm members got exhausted, Mycroft kept on tirelessly working, fresh as a daisy, dissecting every last tiny detail of the process. If it weren't for Irene or Rosie rescuing him from time to time, Lestrade would not have been able to keep up with his working pace. 

It was not only the emotional impact of remembering everything that happened with Alex that led him to his low mood. Mycroft's attitude also disconcerted him. Although Lestrade tried to concentrate on what they told him and focus on what was coming, he couldn't. Surprised, hurt and disappointed, he couldn't understand why the elder Holmes didn't show any sign that something had changed between them.

As if he hadn't been waiting outside his door for almost a day, or they hadn't been honest about their binge eating. There were times when he wondered if he imagined it if the feelings he perceived in Mycroft weren't such. He would have sworn that the attraction between them was mutual, especially after how he said goodbye after returning from the meeting with Donovan at NSY.

But when he went to the firm the next day after Irene's call, he found a Mycroft as cold as an iceberg, whose relationship with him did not go beyond the client-lawyer, more distant than the day they first met. Not one affectionate gesture, not one minute to be alone, not one fond word to him. He cut off all possibility of communication between them except about the proceedings. It was Irene who, when he was not at the buffet, called him or sent him messages about documents they needed or organised the next appointments. 

That tore him apart emotionally. He couldn't stop wondering what was wrong with him, why Mycroft changed his mind and rejected him. From time to time, his attitude reminded him of Alex's when he got angry and didn't speak to him for several days. But no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't find the reason that could have upset so much the elder Holmes.

The third day of working together turned out to be devastating for him. After shouting at Irene that he didn't want to hear any more about the demands, he fled from the firm to hide in his flat. Insecurity, anxiety and rejection devoured him as he binged on food hidden in the cot.

And now, four days later, Sherlock snuck into his filthy apartment amid all his misery.

Sensing the writer would not leave him alone until he woke up, he got out of bed and went to take a shower, while Sherlock, who miraculously managed to rescue the coffee machine from the stack of dirty pots, opened and closed cupboards in search of coffee and a clean cup.

The shower relaxed him. He felt sick, and that damned feeling of being worthless still weighed on him, but the hot water helped him feel a little better after that horrible week. Ten minutes later, he came out of the bath, wrapped in his bathrobe and a cloud of steam. He was about to say something, but he fell silent when he found Sherlock standing in front of his easel, watching the drawing of him and his brother. 

Shit, shit, shit.

"Is it... is it me, as a child?" the writer mumbled, astonished, his gaze fixed in the painting, frowning.

For a moment, Greg felt tempted to say no. But it was so evident that it would be nonsense to deny it. 

"I just..." his mind raced around, trying to find a good explanation. "Mycroft told me you liked writing since you were a child, so...."

"He only told you that?" he asked sharply. 

"Yes," he lied, trying to sound as firm and convincing as possible. 

He wasn't sure what his reaction would be if he found out that he knew everything about his abusive father. Sherlock turned to look at him, obviously not believing a word, and Lestrade perceived dark shadows crossing his blue-green eyes. He blinked and looked back at the drawing and then at him. 

"It's great," he whispered, "you are very talented." 

"No, it's not good; there are too many details missing..."

"It's outstanding, Lestrade, believe me," insisted the writer." When you finish this one, I'd like to buy it."

Greg looked at him, gaping, then smirked; Sherlock was pulling his leg. 

"No, I'm not pulling your leg." 

He frowned, bewildered, still amazed at the writer's damned ability to read his mind, however much he denied it. 

"I am a writer. I know it's hard to believe that what you paint is good enough or that what I write is worthwhile. We artists have deep-seated insecurity in ourselves; we find it hard to be objective about our work, and the subjectivity with which we examine ourselves is usually negative. I know that. It happens to me every day. If it weren't for John, who takes my novels out of the rubbish bin, they would still be there. Believe me. I know what I'm talking about." he whispered, blushing a bit. 

Greg looked at him, surprised, unable to understand how someone so gifted couldn't doubt his talent, but the writer sounded sincere. 

"Mycroft thinks so too," he smirked. 

"They were just muffins; anyone could have drawn them",, he replied, his heart jumping in his chest when Sherlock mentioned his brother's name. 

"No, not anyone. Not the way you do. Each of us creates our work in our way, giving it a unique personal touch that makes them different from others, you in your drawings, and me in my novels. Thousands of painters will draw muffins, but none of them will be exact to yours. Thousands of writers will create thrillers, but none of their novels will be exact to mines. And that's what makes art so special. We all have something to contribute to it". 

Lestrade smiled for himself. That was the largest writer's talk since he met him. The passion with which he spoke was overwhelming, and the painter felt, for once, that his drawings could be a bit worthwhile. He felt a lump in his throat, not understanding why; every time someone said something nice to him or seemed to care about him, he got about to burst into tears. 

Listening to Sherlock's appreciation of what he painted, he felt an immense sense of grief inside. Grief for himself, remembering how Alex did precisely the opposite, convincing him that painting was a waste of time and even more so, as he used to say him because you have no talent at all. 

He felt a warmth in his chest that somewhat mitigated the blackness that surrounded him.

"You can have it", he said, gesturing towards the drawing. 

"No, no, no. When you're an accomplished painter, you can gift me your works. For now, I want to buy it. It's amazingly realistic. Like if you met me as a child. And Mycroft… it's not just that you reproduced his features so perfectly, but…his expression, his eyes... as if you could see inside him. Because this is exactly how he still sees me, as the child who he still needs to protect". 

He bit his lower lips and frowned. 

"Did he tell you about the typewriter?"

Greg shook his head. 

"No, I pictured you like this in my head. I don't know why".

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"Really?" 

Lestrade nodded. 

"Amazing. Truly. But don't show it to Mycroft, okay? I mean, not this one".

"Why?" 

"Long story", he snapped, abruptly turning around and ending the conversation ", where the hell is your bread?" 

"In the cupboard on the right". 

Sherlock found it and put two bread slices in the toaster. 

"You don't want to eat anything?"

"I've already had breakfast", he muttered, and from the tone, Lestrade knew it was a lie. "Hurry up. We are leaving in ten minutes".

"Where?" 

"To a meeting," replied the writer, opening and closing cupboards as Lestrade ate the toasts he prepared. The writer took out a huge black rubbish bag from one of them and a vinyl glove pair from his pocket. To Lestrade's astonishment, he started to collect the empty food wrappers, boxes and bags scattered all over the floor and threw them in the bag, where he also put the plates with food leftovers, wrinkling his nose at the disgusting smell. 

"You don't have to ....".

"I lived with Mycroft," he replied, moving quickly around the flat "I know the effect it has. Besides, it's good for me. Today.... is a dangerous day". 

Lestrade frowned. He remembered then a text from Rosie inviting him to the rehearsal of the book presentation they organised that afternoon. Of course, he had not the least intention of attending, but then he realised that what he took for Sherlock's impatience was nervousness. 

"Dangerous?"

"It's a way of talking". 

Lestrade nodded, not understanding anything but grateful that Sherlock did not judge him. The mess, the waste and food scraps accumulated in his apartment, made him feel a wreck and a failure. Now, he felt a bit better as they quickly disappear from his sight. He understood then that when Sherlock said, "I know the effect it has", he referred to the psychological aspect of cleaning them up. 

"I'm waiting for you in the car," he said in a tone that granted he wouldn't take no for an answer, closing the bag with a firm gesture and leaving the flat.

Lestrade nodded, trying to swallow the knot in his throat with the last sip of coffee. He opened his wardrobe and found a white shirt and black jeans that he didn't remember very well where they came from. Already dressed, as he combed his hair in the mirror, he wondered if John or Mycroft knew that the writer was about to leave the apartment and if he should warn them, in case Moriarty followed them. 

He decided not to. He didn't have John's number, didn't want to disturb him at the hospital, and didn't want to phone Mycroft. If he didn't answer his call, he would go down utterly. Grateful to have something to do other than sinking in all his misery, he took the drawing Sherlock liked and rolled it up, securing it with a rubber band, and set it aside in a corner. Then he placed a new sheet on the easel and went down to the street. Sherlock was at the wheel of his jeep, typing quickly on his phone. 

He was to open the passenger's door, but Sherlock gestured him to sit in the back seat. Lestrade obeyed, reminding him of his need to protect his personal space. He sat behind the passenger seat and put on his seat belt. 

"Where are we going?" he asked again. 

"To visit Henry Knight," replied Sherlock, starting the car and plunging into London traffic. 

Lestrade frowned. That was who Mycroft had asked him about and the name he saw on the wall of Sherlock's flat, but he was sure he didn't know him. 

"Rosie and I have been investigating Alex's properties, the ones he put under his parents and sister's name before your divorce to avoid sharing them with you", replied Sherlock, answering his mute question. 

"So John finally let her keep in the case?" Lestrade asked, trying to divert the subject," She was mad with him about that". 

Sherlock nodded. 

"They both have a temper, and they argue a lot, but Rosie understood that John was worried. Too much, in my opinion, but I understand him. That Wilkes is a reptile. He rejected Rosie when she was a baby," he uttered with hatred. "And now the bastard is wandering about her to get information for his repulsive TV show. He can spout all the shit he wants about me, but I can't stand him doing anything to her". 

"She knows how to defend herself," replied Lestrade, and they both chuckled. 

"The point is that John and Rosie achieved an agreement. She could investigate the case without leaving Mycroft's side, and she asked me to help her. Among the divorcer trial's documentation, we found a private contract that stated that King owned fifty per cent of one of the houses that appear in your ex's name". 

"And what is so important about that?" askes Lestrade, his mouth getting dry.

"There was no document stating the extinction of condominium by which Alex bought out Henry's part. Neither documentary evidence of donation or, at least, not in the usual way. We found a private contract whereby King allowed Alex to dispose of the whole house for no consideration. Not only disposal but even to register the place in his name in the Land Registry. A type of contract exactly that you signed with him during your divorce ". 

Lestrade felt a knot in his stomach.

"How did you find that contract? I mean, is it legal? Can you look for it without being a lawyer?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"This isn't the first time I work as a consultant to Mycroft's firm. I'm on his list of assistants, which he loves because it gives him the illusion that he can boss me. It allows me to investigate some cases, which it's useful while I'm researching for my novels, in terms of police procedures, judicial processes, and so on. And now I'm helping Rosie with her studies and cases".

"You take the preparation of your books very seriously."

Sherlock shrugged. 

"Immersing myself in all aspects of what I write, learning, studying, documenting my novels thoroughly, all of that helps me with my phobias, and to control anxiety and boredom. My brain never stops, and when I'm bored… that's not good". 

"Do you know how to do everything all your characters do, Lena, Renatha and the criminals?..." the painter asked, surprised, recalling the twisted, sophisticated and smart ways in which the murderers killed their victims. Not to mention Lena's extensive knowledge proved to have in many fields as in criminology, criminal psychology, chemistry, ballistics, forensic medicine, Botanics…, even in ashes. 

"Of course. But don't tell Donovan. She always says that one day, writing murders will no longer be enough for me, and I'll start committing them," he replied mockingly. 

Lestrade snorted. He liked Sherlock more and more. 

"As I was saying, the contract was among the documentation they provided to the Notary to put the whole property in Alex's name when they changed the ownership in the Land Registry". 

Sherlock got serious and watched him for a few moments in the rearview mirror. 

"You and Alex bought your house shortly after getting married; you took over half of the mortgage..., which means that half of the house is yours. Why did you sign that paper?"

Lestrade jumped up a little, listening to the question. He closed his eyes and shook his head as the knot in his stomach pushed the bile to his throat. 

Sherlock kept on talking, apparently oblivious to his uneasiness.

"There is also no indication that the contract between Alex and Henry was not signed voluntarily, but according to the Land Registry, both were co-owners of that flat for more than eight years. During that time, Alex rented it out, and the total rent amount went to one of his bank accounts, exactly as in your case".

"It's easier for the tenant than paying two landlords," replied Lestrade in a voiceover, wishing he could jump out of the car, but it was speeding along the road. 

"Yes, it could be, but there is no record of any bank transfer from any of Alex's accounts to Henry. And the rent was not cheap, as in the case of your house". 

He glanced at him again through the rearview mirror.

"Mycroft asked the judge for a request, and the bank provided him with all of Alex's banking information. That's how we know about it". 

Lestrade looked at him, processing that information, feeling a strange mixture of anguish, relief, amazement and unease under Sherlock's scrutinising gaze. 

Shame flowed inside him; he closed his eyes, wondering if Mycroft told him what happened at the firm four days ago when they simulated Alex's lawyer's interrogation to Lestrade to prepare him for the real one. 

It took place in an office's large room, with a layout similar to the court. Greg swallowed hard when he entered in, looking at Alex's life-size cardboard figure someone put on one of the chairs. He looked sideways at Irene, who smiled to encourage him when he stood behind a lectern in the middle of the room. 

A couple of minutes later, Mycroft entered the room, not deigning to look at him, and sat down next to Alex's figure. As Lestrade soon found out, if Mycroft as his lawyer was fearsome, as Alex's attorney, he became ruthless. Behind him entered Lorna, one of Irene's assistants who would play the judge's role.

The lawyer, impeccably dressed in his perfect three-piece suit, right hand in his pocket, stood and paced in front of him for a few minutes, openly ignoring him, reading his notes, humming a tune. All of that shattered his nerves, and he had to hold the lectern to control his shaking hands; he closed his eyes to escape from his ex-husband's figure's gaze.

"So", Mycroft's strong voice echoed throughout the room, forcing Lestrade to look at him. He left the papers on the table and turned to stare at him. "From what you have told us, you mean that during the five years of your marriage, you did not realise my client was married to another man?"

His mouth dried up, hurt by both his tone and the question. Unable to speak, he shook his head. Although Irene warned him that there was nothing personal in that questioning and was the only way to prepare it, Mycroft's cold, inquisitive tone pierced deep inside him. 

"Answer the question, Mr Lestrade," Lorna ordered. 

"No, never," he replied in a trembling voice. 

"Not a hint of suspicion? No untimely calls that he answered from another room? Surprise trips? Endless meetings at the office?"

"Yes, but...."

"So you knew about it but decided to ignore it". 

"No... I... didn't know".

"But you said that there was evidence that anyone would have listed as clues that your husband had an affair. Did you never poke around on his phone?"

"No."

"Really? Come on…, everyone does it from time to time, moreover while suspecting his husband or wife is cheating them".

"I... trusted him," he whispered, feeling stupid. 

"You never called him at the office, and his assistant told you he wasn't there? That the meeting was over and he left hours ago?" 

"Yes, but..."

"And when you found out that your husband was married, you didn't report him for bigamy. Why? For a straightforward reason. Because you knew it".

"I didn't know Tom existed!" he yelled, desperate. 

"But my client didn't hide his other marital relationship. It was on Facebook, Instagram... he exchanged frequent emails and WhatsApps with Tom that he didn't hide, and you knew his phone and computer passwords, didn't you? 

Lestrade couldn't answer. His legs failed, and he felt like drowning in dense, deep dark water, that hateful fear invading him again. With the disdain and smugness that Mycroft spoke with, he was making a complete fool of himself. No one would believe that he didn't know it. No one would believe him. As happened in the past. 

"Maybe the three of you were in a relationship?"

Lestrade gaped.

"No, not at all". 

"And when you noticed Alex's interest in Tom increased, you became jealous and decided to divorce him".

"It wasn't like that," he mused, almost inaudibly. 

"And you didn't fight at all. Neither the dismissal without compensation, nor the house's ownership, nor alimony, even though you were unemployed. Why?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, surprised at how accurate Mycroft's attack was, straight into his waterline. And he was sinking hopelessly. 

"I... don't..."

"Because you knew it. But you deceived my client into believing that you did not and manipulated him emotionally". 

He grabbed his chest. That statement stuck in his heart like red-hot iron, physically hurting him. 

"And although my client promised you that he would leave Tom, even though he confessed to you that he was afraid of him, you didn't give him a chance. You divorced him when he was most vulnerable, causing him great moral damage". 

"That's a lie!" shouted Lestrade, tears or rage and shame rolling down his face. "He…". 

Mycroft turned to him. 

"He what, Mr Lestrade? 

He lowered his head, unable to hold him, unable to speak, the fear devouring him again. 

"Do you deny that he asked you for time to sort out the situation? That my client assured you that you were the love of his life, the only one he loved?"

Lestrade shook his head, defeated and discouraged, wishing to volatilise and disappear forever. 

"But you didn't want to fix it. You wanted to get a divorce and keep half of my client's assets, didn't you? Take advantage of the emotionally vulnerable situation he was in; that was your plan, wasn't it?" 

Mycroft approached him, piercing him with his steely eyes. 

"You would give up everything. But coincidentally, a months later, when my client is at his worst, depressed, abandoned and alone, you hire a law firm to appeal the divorce judgment, to destroy him financially, psychologically and morally. In this process, there is a victim, and it is not you, Mr Lestrade!"

"That's not true, that's not true," he mused between tears, hiding his face behind his hands, shaking from head to toe. 

He couldn't breathe, feeling the same tightness in his chest as when Alex said those exact words to him. He collapsed in a chair, the abyss opening up again before his feet, that fear that strangled up in his stomach until he felt it could break him in half.

The worst was that Mycroft left the room, without a word, without even looking at him. Irene tried to comfort him, telling him that he was doing very well, but he knew she was lying. He didn't need a law degree to know that his answers were pathetic, that everything Mycroft said was plausible, and any judge would consider it valid. 

His spirits sank when he realised that his divorce would be the first case Mycroft's office would lose. There was no doubt as to why he distanced himself so much from him. So, after yelling at Irene, he didn't want to pursue the appeal; he fled from the office and hid in his apartment until the moment the writer awoke him. 

Meeting Sherlock, John, Rosie, and, most of all, Mycroft gave him the illusion of being able to stand up to Alex, but panic still gripped him as hard as when he lived with him. And it was only a carton-board figure. He didn't want to think about what could happen when he met with the real one. 

"If we had an accident now and I suffered a brain oedema as a result of a head injury, John could not operate on me". 

Lestrade blinked, coming out of his reverie, and looked at Sherlock, not understanding what the hell that was all about. The writer frowned and wrinkled his nose, realising Lestrade didn't get it. 

"Because he is emotionally involved with me," he explained, rolling his eyes. 

Lestrade couldn't help smile at the euphemism used to say that John was in love with him. Anyway, he didn't get the point. 

The writer sighed. 

"You are a real idiot," he continued with some affability. "What I mean is that if Mycroft will get.." he made a vague gesture in the air with his hand ", more involved with you, he could not be your lawyer. Alex's lawyers could even recuse him, so he could not assist you in the trial.". 

Lestrade looked at him, unable to believe him. Anyway, he had no reason to be so tough on him. 

"You surprised Mycroft, and it's not something many people can brag about. And he was so hard on you because he wants to spare you as much damage as possible in court. As rough as he was with you while preparing it, your ex's lawyers will be even worse. They will try to tear you apart, get you to drop the lawsuit, and invalidate your testimony. And that is what my brother wants to prevent to happen. But if I am an emotional idiot, he is incompetent from the emotional point of view".

Lestrade's jaws dropped. He never thought that was the reason behind Mycroft's behaviour. Disdain, rejection, shame on others, disappointment..., all the possible motives run through his head during those days buried in his cot, but it hadn't occurred to him for a moment that it was what he felt for him that had led Mycroft to do so during the rehearsal. 

"Really?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly. 

"He only wants to protect you". 

Lestrade looked at him blankly. The writer gulped audibly. 

"Siger thought feelings were a weakness. He always said that love is a chemical defect and caring is not an advantage. Any demonstration of emotion we made as children, such as crying, being sad, showing fear, feeling compassion or empathy, was severely punished by him. But he also scolded us if we laughed while watching a movie, or when we enjoyed doing something..."

He bit his upper lip, struggling to find the words to go on.

"To survive, we were forced to stop feeling, to dissociate ourselves from our emotions, as my therapist says, until we stopped feeling anything. And when you can't identify your own emotions, even less can you understand others'. The pressure Siger put on us in this respect was brutal, especially on Mycroft. He wanted to protect me from it, from all, he wanted me to... but... something happened. Something that Mycroft has not yet managed to forgive himself for. He is still convinced that it was his fault that he didn't protect me adequately. That's why he is afraid the same thing will happen to you". 

Lestrade opened his mouth to ask what happened, but Sherlock kept talking without giving him a chance to do so 

"No one taught him how to protect someone in a..." the writer struggled again with the word "more empathic way. And he won't be able to learn it until he forgives himself". 

He felt silent for a couple of seconds and smiled fondly. 

"I was like him, but John and Rosie helped me unravel others' feelings that I couldn't decipher before. Most of them are still a mystery to me, but...he has no one to help him with that. He is afraid to get… vulnerable doing so. He is afraid of making the same mistake as in the past. That's why he became a control obsessive. He needs to make sure that he controls even the smallest detail. That is what gives him security. That's why he is so hard on you". 

He studied at him intently through the rearview mirror.

"I know that's what he would like to be able to tell you, but he doesn't know how".

"And he told you all of that?"

"He didn't have to". 

Lestrade sat back in his seat, surprised. He did not doubt that Sherlock was sincere. He never thought Mycroft was even more scared than he was, that he was trying to protect both his heart and Lestrade, but he was panicking. But Mycroft couldn't know Lestrade also had much reason to be scared, not of Mycroft, but of everything that would come to him if he continued with the court, and he wasn't sure, even with Mycroft at his side, he could cope with it.

They drove silently for the last few kilometres, following the navigator's directions, until they reached a lonely, poorly lit neighbourhood, with broken pavements and streets, a few being old, dirty, tiny, low houses near a railway track. 

"How did you find King?"

"I investigated him from his last address I found at the courthouse—several hotels, then pensions, then nothing. But snooping through his court papers, I sought out who attended all the trials sessions as an audience. Divorce trials do not attract the public's attention, so those who attend to them usually have a very close relationship with the complainant or the defendant. I found that Henry's cousin attended every session of the trial. At first, she didn't want to talk to me. She thought I was one of Alex's lawyers or a debt collector. But I insisted until she let me explain to her why I was looking for him. Then she gave me his number, and I phoned him". 

Lestrade looked around them nervously. 

"Are you sure it's here? It's not a very reassuring place," he mused, getting out of the car, wondering if they would find it scrapped when they went back. 

Sherlock did not respond. He pressed the electronic key and started walking as the car beeped.

The security and apparent tranquillity with which the writer walked through that neighbourhood surprised him. He seemed familiar with the atmosphere. Lestrade remembered then another of his novels, _Into the Darkness_. Much of the action took place in a similar neighbourhood, and he must get familiar with that environment while writing it.

Sherlock stood in front of one of the houses and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He did it again, harder. 

"Sherlock Holmes", he said through the door. 

They heard steps, and there was a silence, broken by the unlocking of several latches. Finally, the door opened, held by a chain, and they saw half a man's face that watched them nervously. 

"Sherlock Holmes", he repeated. "We spoke on the phone before. This is Graham Lestrade".

"Greg Lestrade". 

"Whatever". 

The man watched them for a few moments and nodded. He closed the door, unlocked the chain and invited them in. Sherlock waited until he was at a safe distance and went in after him, followed by Lestrade. 

The house was not much bigger than the flat in which the painter lived and was just as messy, neglected and dirty. The man invited them to sit down. They both declined the invitation, looking for a more or less clean place to lean on, the writer standing at a distance from Lestrade and Henry. 

"Would you like some tea?"

"No, thanks," replied Sherlock, glancing at the tiny kitchen that no one had cleaned in months. Lestrade held back a retch when something crept around the sink. 

The writer left a piece of paper on the table. The man put on some glasses and read it, squinting. 

"Is this a joke?" he asked, annoyed.

Sherlock shook his head. 

Henry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes. After a few seconds, He spoke in a monotone, unemotional tone. 

"One year after getting married, Timothy, my husband, insisted that we should buy a new house. Big and expensive, very expensive, too much for us. We lived in a rented flat in London, not very central, but we were fine, and I didn't want to leave it, but he insisted. He complained that he wasn't happy there that there was too much noise, pollution..., In the end, I gave in. We signed the mortgage; we paid it fifty-fifty. Theoretically, he should have taken over eighty per cent of it because he was the company owner where I worked and earned much more money than me. Still, he told me that it would be our first house together, that it was more romantic, that he would take over the mortgage if necessary, that buying it between the two of us was a proof of our love...."

Lestrade looked at him, incredulous, a sense of unreality sweeping over him. 

"Everything was fine until the day that damn man showed up" Henry shook his head and smiled sadly. "We had just celebrated our fifth marriage anniversary a couple of weeks ago. I was alone at home; Timothy, my husband, advised me to take a few days off since I had been working a lot, and I should have some rest". 

He sighed.

"A tall, dark man with a black moustache knocked at our door. He asked for Timothy, and I told him he was not there. I asked if he wanted me to give him a message. He might be a client and my husband...". 

He stopped for a few moments while Lestrade looked at him, wondering if he wasn't dreaming. 

Henry breathed in, frowning, blinking, his eyes filled with tears of pain and rage. 

"He nodded and said: _Please, tell Timothy his husband is looking for him_. From there, it all went to shit. Two months later, we got divorced".

"Why did you give him your part of your common house? You were completely left with nothing after the divorce," asked Sherlock. 

Henry's face crumpled in a gesture of fury and contempt. 

"The bank claimed the mortgage payments, Timothy threw all his lawyers at me, and I..., he said I owed him, for all the years he gave me, for all he suffered at my side. His lawyers told me that I wouldn't have to pay the mortgage or any other debt if I signed the paper. I didn't want to, but... I was alone and up to my ears in debt. So I got scared and signed. But..." 

"Do you have a picture of Timothy?" asked Sherlock. 

Henry scratched his head thoughtfully. 

"I think I burned them all, but..."

He stood up and rummaged through the grimy shelves of a dusty cupboard. As he opened them, several empty liquor bottles fell to the ground and rolled around. Henry grabbed something and put it on the table. 

"I kept this one, to never forget that bastard's face", he grunted. 

In the picture, Henry and another man appeared on a park bench, smiling and hugging each other. 

Lestrade covered his mouth with his hand and collapsed on a dirty chair, totally shocked.

"Is he Alex?" asked Sherlock. 

Lestrade nodded weakly, frowning, shaking his head slightly, unable to understand what was happening. 

"Yes, in this picture, he has brown hair and a goatee, but... it's him." 

Sherlock took a photo from his jacket's inner pocket and put it next to the one Henry left on the table. It showed Lestrade and a blond and shaved Alex, both on a park bench, hugging and smiling at each other, in a very similar attitude to the other photo. Henry looked at it and then to both men, as shocked as Lestrade. 

"What the hell…?"

"The man you call Timothy is now called Alex and was married to him for five years", answered Sherlock, pointing to Lestrade. 

Henry ran his hand over his mouth, looking at the photos again and then at Lestrade. 

"I think we need a drink," he muttered, and the painter nodded. 

He pulled three dirty glasses out of a cupboard and a half-full bottle of vodka. Sherlock waved him away, but he and Lestrade drank it in one gulp. The painter coughed and pounded his chest, feeling the concoction burning in his stomach, but it helped him to assimilate all of it. 

"Do you also waived the house?" Henry asked in a tone that seemed to disbelieve what he was asking. 

Lestrade nodded, unable to even say a word. 

"You're not thinking of appealing, are you?"

He nodded again. 

"Don't do that. Those five years with that bastard will be child's play next to what will happen if your dare to do it," he rubbed his mouth and filled the glass again to empty it on one gulp. "I made that mistake, and look at me now", he gestured with his hand pointing at the house. 

"What happened?" asked Sherlock. 

"He terminated me. Financially, psychologically and emotionally. At first, he sent me conciliatory messages, we can't let five wonderful years end like this, think of what we had, but he became more threatening little by little. And you know what I mean." 

Lestrade shuddered. 

"Has he sent you any messages?" asked Sherlock. 

He nodded. 

"Does Mycroft know?"

He shook his head with a mixture of shame, anger and defeat. Alex told him that he was the only person he had ever connected with for his entire life. He said Lestrade was unique, special for him. If assimilating Tom's existence had been hard, finding out now that his whole story was a lie was devastating for him. And strangely relieving 

Sherlock took out his phone and typed quickly. 

"Who are you, his lawyer?" Henry asked. 

"Kind of". 

Henry lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke, looking at him. 

"He will eat him alive," he warned Lestrade, looking sideways at the writer, "he will pull out all his legal artillery as he did with me. A bunch of crawling vultures, unscrupulous, who stirred up my life, twisted every detail of it, lied, slandered, and managed to make Alex appear as a poor, defenceless and innocent victim."

Hee laughed sadly and contemptuously at the last words, showing his yellow teeth from the tobacco; a bitter, incredulous laugh, interspersed with throat whistles and incredulous shaking of his head.

"The victim..., son of a bitch..., you know what I'm talking about. He crushed my lawyer and destroyed me. I had to pay the court's costs and compensate for him. I was convicted of false reporting and seized for not paying any debt. And here I am. Drunk, living in this bloody lost hole of hell and cursing the fateful day I met that bastard". 

"Would you be willing to testify in court?" asked Sherlock. 

The wry smile disappeared from Henry's face, replaced by fear. He blew out the smoke in one long puff, smashed the cigarette butt hard on the table, leaving a black burn and shook his head. 

"You don't have much to lose," observed the writer. 

"You don't understand. You don't know what Alex is capable of. That man is the devil himself".

Lestrade noticed Sherlock holding his breath at those words but didn't say anything. 

Henry pointed to him. 

"You can tell him," he ended up looking at Lestrade, who got up and ran out of the house to get to the road, where he knelt to vomit. Sherlock came out after him, and when he finished, he handed him a handkerchief. 

"What did he mean by that?"

"Nothing". 

"Mycroft can't go to court without knowing everything." 

"I don't care. I'm not going to court. I already told your brother. And now with even more reason. You heard him. He'll tear me apart. Me and Mycroft". 

"He can't handle Mycroft."

"I'm not going to court." 

"You can't…."

"Are you deaf? Do you want me to end up like him?" he howled, terrified. "Is that what you and your brother want?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a step back. 

"Don't yell at me," he hissed. 

"Why? Because everybody has to protect the poor little boy abused by his father?" Sherlock looked at him, hurt. "Poor little Sherlock, don't yell at him, don't touch him, don't say anything because he will have a flashback", he yelled mockingly, flapping his voice and waving his hands, unable to stop talking. "You don't know shit about Alex! You don't know anything about me! Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do?"

Sherlock looked at him for a few moments and closed his eyes, breathing heavily, muttering something to himself. Then he turned around, walked to the car and got into it. Lestrade ran after him, sat in the back seat, slammed the door and remained silent, panting, feeling angry, sorry and guilty. 

A few minutes later, the writer, without turning around, spoke in a calm voice.

"You are right. I don't know anything about Alex. And I don't know anything about you. But I know what it is to be so terrified of someone that, when he comes to you, your blood freezes in your veins. I know what it is to be sure that, one day or another, he will end up killing you, and to live every day, every hour with that fear. I know what it's like to watch him coming at you wielding his fist, a belt or a bat, knowing that he will beat you up hard and that you won't be able to do anything to avoid it. I know what it is to cry in pure terror, in that terror that comes from your stomach and wraps around your chest and throat, suffocating you, invading your thoughts and life. A fear that makes you tremble from head to toe sticks inside you and never leaves you. I don't know what it was like to live with Alex, but I know all that". 

He stopped to take a breath and looked at Lestrade through the rearview mirror. He opened his mouth to say something else but changed his mind and closed it, making an effort to calm down. 

Lestrade looked away, staring at the landscape outside his window. He shook his head, noticing a knot so tight in his stomach that it hurt. Sherlock, ignoring him completely, started the vehicle and, with a shaking hand, switched on the car mp3. Seconds later, the first notes of Queen's One Vision echoed through the car. He started moving his head to the music, eyes closed and turned up the volume to full power. 

After the first stanza, he drove to the road at full speed, the basses resonating in the car's speakers. Lestrade instinctively began to move to the rhythm of the music, hitting the seat with the sound of the drums, letting the music take away the fear, the shame, the anger, everything dissolved with the sound of the electronic drums and the guitar that surrounded them in that extended version of the song. 

The car remained silent for a while when the song ended. 

"Anthea recommended music to help me manage the anxiety," simply explained Sherlock. 

Then they followed the _We will rock you_ beats, Sherlock, hitting the wheel to its rhythm and Lestrade the headrest in front of him. Anthea was right. Singing at the top of his lungs, immersed in the song, the music, the beat… everything faded away: fear, anxiety, shame..., until, after half an hour, the writer stopped the car in front of Hatchard's. 

It was starting to get dark, and the bookshop was closed, with the blind almost entirely down and curtains stretched behind the windows, making it impossible to see inside. Sherlock parked in front of it, and both got out of the car. 

The writer looked at him and gestured towards the bookstore, his hand trembling slightly. 

"Today is just a rehearsal of the book presentation. I know everyone that I have nothing to fear, yet I am terrified at the thought of going in. But if I don't do it, if I don't beat this fear, Siger will have won, and I will have lost". 

His gaze got lost through the window. 

"When Mycroft told me that we were going to report him, I said no. I never wanted to see him again. Terror is not enough to define what I felt at the thought of being near him again. I refused outright. But Mrs Hudson warned me: monsters don't disappear just by closing your eyes. You have to open the wardrobe or look under the bed. Otherwise, they will haunt you for the rest of your life, even if they are no longer at your side". 

Lestrade felt despised for what he had said to the writer earlier. He turned to him with his head down, avoiding looking at him. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he began, regretful and ashamed.

He was about to add something else, but the roar of a red Aston Martin Vantage's engine coming towards them drowned his voice. Sherlock's face, previously serious and distressed, relaxed and smiled broadly, waving to John and Rosie, who were in the car. 

"We will park and be back in a minute", said John, smiling at Sherlock. He nodded and watched them move away, turning his back on Lestrade.

"Siger is looking for me, isn't he?" he asked when the car was far enough away not to be heard. 

For a second, listening to him, Lestrade could see both the adult and child Sherlock speaking to him. The adult, in a tone that showed he knew the answer. The child, filling his trembling voice with the vain hope that Lestrade would tell him otherwise.

"I don't know what you're talking about". 

Sherlock snorted. 

"Nice try, Lestrade. But I started to suspect something was up when John hit Wilkes and shouted at me at the police station. Since then, he keeps telling me to focus on the presentation, and Mycroft avoids me with the excuse that he is too busy preparing your appeal. Not to mention that Rosie also is hiding something".

He frowned, worrying his lower lip and continued. 

"This morning, your drawing gave me a final clue. After seeing it, I called one of my contacts, who told me Siger had been released from prison. And you didn't even blink when I named him when I told you about the fear or the trial, which implies that Mycroft told you about him, the trial and everything else".

Lestrade looked at him in amazement. Sherlock shrugged. 

"Well, it's not exactly a first date flirt topic: " _Hi, I'm Mycroft, I'm a lawyer, I like to read, and I have a phobia of darkness, small and closed spaces because my father used to lock me in a small, unlit room under the stairs while he beat up my little brothe_ r".

Listening to him, Lestrade felt like punching himself. How had he been such an idiot? How didn't he realise Sherlock was inadvertently questioning him? He threw all of John and Mycroft's efforts overboard, broke the secret he promised to keep. God, John was going to hang him from the roof of The Shard. And he deserved it. 

"To top it all off," he ended, looking around, "Donovan always complains that I leave NYS like idiots in my novels, but she mounted a big surveillance operation. She only lacks to call the SO19. A bit excessive for a book presentation, don't you think?". 

The painter looked around, dumbfounded, trying to guess what the writer was talking about. Apart from the owner of a nearby kiosk, two girls sitting on a bench, a sanitation worker and another leaning out of a window in front of the bookstore, he did not see any police around. 

"You have nothing to fear; John and Mycroft will prevent him from finding you", he tried to reassure him, noticing the writer's breathing getting more laborious. 

Sherlock shook his head, making an effort to control himself. 

"Siger enjoys inflicting physical harm, but what he really loves is causing psychological suffering", he replied in a harsh, dull tone, his voice choking with the effort of breathing. "He knows that it is far more destructive than any physical punishment. Broken bones get fixed, bruises disappear, but soul's wounds... To come and get me and beat me to death would be too direct, too quick and too obvious, and that's not his style. It wouldn't be enough for him. My suffering and his fun would be over too soon".

"The three of you can leave London until Donovan arrests him at the book presentation", suggested Lestrade. 

Sherlock shook his head. 

"It wouldn't be fair to John and Rosie. They have already adapted their lives too much to me. And it would be useless. Siger is like a shark. Once he smells blood, he doesn't lose track of it until he devours his prey," he said, watching John and Rosie, who approached them with a calm step, John telling something and Rosie laughing out loud at what her father was saying. 

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in horror and swallowed. He should warn John. He took a step towards him, but, to his amazement, Sherlock grabbed his arm, stopping him. 

"Don't tell him I know it", he grunted.

"But…"

"Don't tell Mycroft and John a word. Promise me you won't do it, Lestrade. This is something between Siger and me. Please, Lestrade". 

"Okay, I won't tell them anything. But promise me you won't do anything without talking with John or Mycroft before". 

The writer nodded, leaned against a nearby tree and bent over, breathing deeply and quickly. 

"I can't breathe," he groaned. 

Lestrade felt helpless, not knowing how to help him, and thanked the heavens when John ran towards them, followed by Rosie.

"Sherlock, easy, you are okay", said John standing next to him, running his hand down his back in a circular motion to relax him while the writer was escalating into a panic attack. 

"Breathe through your nose, your nose, that's is, like me," John advised gently, breathing slowly to his own nose. 

He turned to his daughter.

"Get a glass of water". 

She nodded and knocked on the metal shutter, which rose after a few seconds. When the gap was enough, she slid into the bookshop and reappeared after a few seconds with a glass of water. 

John motioned for her to wait, indicating her and Lestrade to stand back, to make room for the writer. 

"Sherlock, breath with me, through your nose, yes, like this", advised John again in a soft, paused and calm voice. 

The writer raised his head, struggling to follow John's instructions, his eyes glazed, as lost in some kind of nightmare. He seemed about to cry, trying to keep with his husband's breathing rhythm. 

"Now, let's do a subtraction exercise", said John a minute later. He stopped rubbing his back and moved gently in front of him, speaking in a calm, low tone, "what's a hundred minus seven?"

The writer didn't respond. John gave him another minute, breathing calmly, focused on Sherlock's eyes. 

"How much is a hundred minus seven, Sherlock?" he repeated in the same gentle tone.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to focus on John's voice. 

"Ninety-three."

"Ninety-three minus seven?"

"Eighty... eighty-six," the writer gasped, though his breath began to stutter a bit. 

"Eighty-six minus seven?"

"Seventy-nine."

"Seventy-nine minus seven?"

"Seventy-two."

"He is getting Sherlock out of that scary place that panic attacks lead him to," Rosie explained in a quiet voice to Greg, realising he didn't understand what was going on. "Amid a panic attack, the mind creates the most frightening scenarios and jumps from one fear to another, each more terrible than the previous one. It reinforces the vicious circle of negative thinking and anxiety that leads to a panic attack. By forcing Sherlock to subtract, Dad sets his brain's logical part in motion. This way, it takes control away from the irrational one and helps him to break that vicious circle". 

Lestrade looked at her, amazed, and she smiled. Jonn's technique was working; little by little, Sherlock's gaze became more focused, and his breathing more regular. 

"Sixteen minus seven?" the neurosurgeon continued. 

"Nine."

"Minus seven?"

"Two" Sherlock pronounced that number with a great sigh of relief, his eyes full of tears. 

"I'm..., I'm sorry," he whispered. 

"There's nothing to be sorry about". John started massaging his knuckles, and Sherlock's body relaxed a bit more, "how do you feel? Do you want to go back home?"

Greg was surprised at the question but understood that giving the writer that choice helped control his anxiety. 

"No, I just need a minute." 

John nodded. 

"There's no rush. We have all the time in the world. 

"But inside..." Sherlock muttered, glancing at the bookshop. 

"They are warned. The important thing is that you feel good" he gestured to Rosie to bring her the glass of water and extended it to Sherlock, who took it with a trembling hand "that's it, drink, slowly, like that. "Do you want to walk a bit?" 

The writer nodded. John returned the glass to Rosie, who smiled affectionately at Sherlock without coming near him, and then took Lestrade by the arm and pulled him into the bookstore, while John and Sherlock walked along the pavement, the neurosurgeon not touching or brushing against the writer. 

Once inside the bookstore, Lestrade gaped. It bustled with activity. Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Irene, together with a woman with long dark hair in a black suit, and two girls about Rosie's age, chatted happily as they placed large roll-ups with the covers of Sherlock's novels behind a long table on the ground floor of the bookstore. In front of it, a group of men were placing chairs amidst laughter and chatter. 

"Today is the final rehearsal for the presentation," explained Rosie, watching Lestrade turn in on himself, dazzled. "Sherlock knows everyone, and all are aware of how to behave with Sherlock. That way, as Anthea advised us, he will rehearse in a safe environment". 

Mrs Hudson approached them. 

"They went for a walk, but Sherlock said he wanted to keep on with the presentation". 

The bookshop owner smiled faintly, relieved, moreover when Sherlock and John entered the bookshop about twenty minutes later. None of those gathered in the bookstore approached them or asked Sherlock how he felt. They simply greeted them warmly from where they were. 

Even so, Lestrade watched Sherlock squeezed John's hand, as afraid of letting it go. He whispered something in his ear; the writer nodded and pressed a dot on the back of his left hand with the index finger and thumb of his right one. To Lestrade's amazement, he visibly and immediately relaxed. 

"It's an emotional anchor", explained a voice at his back. 

Lestrade turned around and found a woman with long black hair. He remembered seeing her a couple of times in Mycroft's office. 

"I'm Anthea", she said, smiling and holding out her hand. 

Lestrade shook it in surprise. Although he guessed Anthea was not older than Sherlock, the woman in front of her did not match the image he had of a therapist, a serious and grim woman, who listened to the patient with a scowl. 

"I've heard a lot about you", she said. 

"I hope it's all good. 

"Really good," she replied, casting a mocking glance at Mycroft, who was fluttering around the back of the bookstore, as far away from Lestrade as possible. 

"What is an emotional…?"

"An emotional anchor is a stimulus that retrieves ourselves a desired emotional state. Every time Sherlock, after practising relaxation techniques, feels totally relaxed, he does that movement. It creates a memory in his mind and body, and anchor, and brings him to a relaxed state in seconds". 

"I should learn to do it", smiled Lestrade. He frowned. "It is the same with Queen?" 

Anthea laughed. 

"Yes, and no". 

"I finally found my wife," smiled Irene, approaching them and kissing Anthea on the lips. 

"I didn't know you were married," Lestrade. 

"No wonder. With all the hours she spent working with Mycroft, I sometimes wonder if we really are," joked Anthea. 

"We met eight years ago, at one of my first courts, before I met Mycroft", explained Irene." Anthea performed an expert psychological report to examine a defendant and certify whether he was criminally liable.

"At the time, I knew that Mycroft was thinking of opening a law firm, and I introduced her to him. And they set it up". 

"And four years later, we got married" Irene smiled tenderly at Anthea, who winked affectionately and kissed her.

Molly approached them, asking Rosie, Anthea and Irene to help Mrs Hudson and the two young girls place some books. They nodded and joined them while, led by Molly, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade, approached the long table that presided over the event. The writer watched the distance with the first row of chairs in front of it and scowled. 

"Aren't they too close to the table?" 

"Three meters, exactly what you asked for, not a millimetre less", answered one of the men who was placing them. 

He walked up to them, smiled at Sherlock and patted John on the back with a smile. "I suppose you'll be buying us a few pints for the effort later, Captain". 

"Be sure about that", smiled John. He turned to Lestrade. "This is Bill, my best friend and nurse at Bart's. Bill; this is Greg". 

"His slave, better said," joked the nurse, making them laugh.

"Captain?" Lestrade asked, looking at John. 

"I'm the captain of the Barts' doctors and nurses' rugby team," he proudly replied. 

Lestrade understood then why John was so physically fit. At almost forty years of age, he was amazed that he was still playing. 

"We may be in our forties, but we have beaten up more than a few confident residents' teams, didn't we?" joked John, and the rest of the men burst out laughing, nodding their heads. 

"More than one has come out with his tail between his legs," chanted the others, amidst laughter, as the writer smiled, rolling his eyes. 

"We are still waiting for you to come to play with us," Bill joked, winking at him. 

"My dream sport," sneered the writer ", fifteen guys throwing down on me".

They celebrated with a new laugh. When Molly went to talk with him, John took Lestrade apart. 

"Has something happened to him today?" he asked, worried and thoughtful, nodding towards Sherlock, "He had controlled his anxiety about the presentation, so it didn't provoke his panic attack". 

Lestrade hesitated for a moment to tell him about Siger or not. But seeing Sherlock calmly and animatedly chatting with Molly and Anthea, he decided not to. He didn't want to break his promise or spoil John and Rosie's day. There would be time later. 

"No, nothing. He told me today was a dangerous day". 

John looked at him, narrowing his eyes. 

"Only that?"

"Absolutely." 

John nodded, and Lestrade let out all the air he had been holding back without being aware of it.

"Hey, don't kidnap my boys", greeted Mrs Hudson cheerfully, approaching them, dragging an irritated Mycroft with her. "Everything is perfect, Sherlock, just as we discussed. You have nothing to worry about. Molly will give you the last details," she turned to the painter and smiled broadly. "Greg, I'm glad you came. 

Seeing her, Lestrade, remembering all that Mycroft had told him about how she had cared for him and Sherlock, he embraced her, not knowing why. The days preparing for the trial, the ones he spent in the solitude of his room and the conversation with Henry King all took a toll on his mood. She seemed surprised and then hugged him tightly, smiling.

"Ohhh, the evil Mycroft is making you work too hard?" she cooed with affection as if she were talking to a small child. 

Greg chuckled and shook his head while he could practically hear the lawyer roll his eyes. 

Calmer, he parted from her. She gave Mycroft a funny look that turned into concern and approached him. 

"Try to relax a bit", she advised him solicitously. 

"I am fine", replied the lawyer dryly.

Mrs Hudson sighed at his stubborn gesture.

"Mycroft, Sherlock is fine. We are all here. You can stop pretending to be the imperturbable big brother and admitted that you're worried. It's okay. John is. So am I. You also have the right to be scared". 

Mycroft tensed up. 

"Who....? Ah, that idiot Anderson. Now it turns out that in addition to sleeping with Donovan, they also share police secrets," he grunted. 

She smiled naughtily. 

"It wasn't necessary. What did you think? That I wouldn't notice that NSY was watching my bookstore?" she patted the lawyer's arm lovely. "You should talk to his therapist or Anthea. And to Donovan. She has set up a device out there that anyone would say was robbing the bookshop. Be thankful your brother is too worried about this to notice.". 

The lawyer grunted and slipped away to one end of the bookstore. She sighed, looked at Greg and smiled. 

"I hope someday he learns that vulnerability and fragility are not the same," she sighed. "He has to learn to take care of himself too, and I hope you'll help him do that, darling," she turned and picked up a pile of books." Could you help me?"

Lestrade nodded, delighted and accompanied her to the shelf, feeling more relieved, mentally away from the trial, the food, Henry King and Alex. Sherlock was right when he said that Mycroft still saw him as a little brother he needed to protect. He feared that, if he rested, if he stopped worrying for a thousandth of a second, his brother would be hurt. 

And it was the same with Lestrade. Mycroft didn't want to leave any chance for Alex's lawyers to hurt him; he tried to make amends for anything that might come and, with his experience, he knew it could be a lot. In his grim and distant way, abrupt and cold, he was protecting him. 

Placing the books, he observed Sherlock and John. They were looking at one of the large photos that covered the shelves that showed emblematic places where the novels were set: the mysterious forests, the mountains, emblematic places in the city or the small Italian restaurant where Lana and Renatha used to dine in the middle or at the end of their cases. He approached the photo to observe it better and noticed the man with his dark hair in a ponytail next to them. 

"Greg, this is..." John began. 

"You are Angelo," he shouted in excitement, surprised at how accurate was his description in Sherlock's first novel, so much so that he had easily recognised him as "The owner of the restaurant where Lana and Renatha always go after cases!"

The man swelled with pride, stood up straight in his full height and smiled broadly, nodding and shaking his hand with affection, as John and Sherlock watched the scene, amused. 

"I can't believe it's you. You have no idea how many times I tried to book a table in your restaurant, but it was always impossible".

"Blame him", Angelo smiling widely, gesturing toward the writer, who bit his lip and smiled shyly, "If it weren't for this man, I would be ruined. Business was not good, and I had gotten into some... undesirable loans to keep it afloat. But the restaurant appeared out in his first novel, and, from bankruptcy to heaven".

He frowned.

"I haven't seen you before, have I?"

Lestrade shook his head. 

"I've only known them a short while. 

"You have to bring him to my restaurant. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free, on the house, for you and whoever you want. Sherlock's friends are my guests". 

"Be careful", warned John", as soon as he can, he will leave a candle on your table to you, to make the diner more romantic and turn it into a date". 

Angeló laughed out loud. Lestrade watched them, bewildered. 

"The first time I took John to the restaurant, he kept saying that he wasn't my date, but Angelo didn't listen to him and put the candle out for us". 

"I wasn't your date yet. I was your doctor," John justified himself. 

"Don't listen to him. You could tell a mile off that they both had a crush on each other," replied Angelo. 

"You were my doctor, but you tried to hit on me",, Sherlock teased him.

"I was your doctor, but not an idiot", John replied, and the four of them chuckled. 

Lestrade continued to help with all the tasks he was asked to do, happy to feel useful. He looked around, enjoying the friendly and relaxed atmosphere that reigned in the bookstore, where everyone, in small groups, was doing something: moving furniture, placing books, dusting, making room for more chairs, all chatting animatedly. Everyone except Anderson, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about. Half hidden in a corner, pen in hand, he checked a list with a sullen gesture, looking at the rest of them from time to time and muttering to himself. 

Finally, when everything was ready, the rehearsal began. Sherlock sat in the middle of the table, Molly to his right, John to his left, Mycroft next to him and Mrs Hudson next to Molly. 

Lestrade sat in the first row of chairs, between Rosie and Anthea, excited. All that racket helped him disconnect from his reality, returning to when he became one of the hundreds of thousands of the writer's fans after reading W. Scott's first novel. He made many friends, some real, others virtual, all sharing the passion for mystery, thrillers, all trying to know more about W. Scott, about his novels, meeting in the places where they were happening... One of the best times of his life. Who would have thought that shortly afterwards, he would meet Alex...

After the rehearsal, he said goodbye to Sherlock and John, who left in the company of John's friends. He looked for Mycroft, but he must have slipped away at some point because he didn't see him.

Lestrade decided to stay a while longer in the bookstore, having tea with Rosie, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Anthea. There, he felt safe and protected with them, and the calm energy they radiated made him feel good. 

While chatting with them, his eyes fell on one of the books stacked on a table. It wasn't the cover that caught his attention, but the name, Philip Anderson. 

"Yes, my nephew is the author," said Mrs Hudson in a muffled voice following the direction of his gaze. 

Lestrade frowned. He then remembered reading about the first novel by Philip Anderson some time ago, but at no time did he connect him with the bookseller's nephew. He rummaged through his memory, trying to recall what it had been. 

"His first novel was quite successful" he finally said, "but..."

He stopped. The second, unlike the first, was a resounding failure, battered by critics and readers. 

"This is the second one. It appeared at the same time as Sherlock's first novel" she quickly added. 

"Sherlock decided to publish at the same time, then?" he asked, noticing her attempt to avoid speaking about Anderson's novel.

She shook her head, smiling at the memory. 

"He had no intention of publishing anything. He kept everything he wrote in a drawer and only let Mycroft read it, as he had done since he was a little boy, on a promise not to show it to anyone. But one day, Mycroft gave me one of his manuscripts, _It Couldn't Be it_ , to read on the sly. He thought it was terrific, but he wanted an objective opinion, and he knew I would never praise it if it weren't good enough. When I'd finished reading it, without saying anything, I made copies and sent them to a bunch of agents, as I'd done before with Philip's novels." 

"And what did Sherlock do when he found out?" asked Lestrade. 

Mrs Hudson chuckled. 

"He became hysterical, saying we had invaded his privacy, that we had no right, that we had no permission, and I don't know what other nonsense. Deep down, he was panicking about facing that what he was writing was no good enough. It would mean that Siger was right when he told him that everything he wrote was rubbish." 

She became serious. 

"Every time an agent returned a manuscript, the postman pushed it through the letterbox, and it fell with a thud that reverberated through the bookshop. Sherlock looked at us accusingly and hide for hours in the room. Every return brought him down, and Philip, who had been really successful with his novel, told him that what he was writing was indeed rubbish and nobody liked it, that he should learn to write. This, even if Sherlock denied it, affected him deeply. Being a writer was his dream, his vocation. True, he wrote for himself, to make himself feel better, to escape from the past, but still... my nephew gave voice to his fears, and Sherlock felt that without writing, he had nothing; he was worthless".

She glanced sideways at Anderson, who was rummaging around the shop taking inventory. 

"Ever since I brought them in, Philip was jealous of Sherlock. I don't know why... maybe I didn't know how to do it right. Maybe I cared too much about him or..., I don't know. The thing is, they were at each other's throats from the beginning. I must say that Sherlock wasn't shy about calling Philip an idiot in all sorts of ways, each one more bitter than the next. He can be really hurtful when he wants to". 

She sighed, shaking her head. 

"After we got most of it back, an agent agreed to represent the novel and got it published by a small publisher." 

"Sherlock must have been happy," grinned Lestrade. 

"Happy? I still remember him showing us the letter, startled, jumping for joy, incredulous and nervous. Philip told him that the publishing house was shit, that no one would read his novel, but he didn't care. The day we received printed copies... I had never seen him so happy. Not only because of the book itself but because of what it meant: he had defeated Siger, all his fears, all his anxieties, ... everything. That book was a symbol; it was the achievement of everything he had fought for. That's why he didn't care about the publisher's size or anything Philip could say". 

She smiled

"The novel was more successful than expected, and, in a short time, they sold out all the thousand copies they printed. But then he insisted on Sherlock doing promotional tours, presentations... and it all went down the drain. He tried, but... it caused him tremendous panic and anxiety attacks. That's when he met John. When Sherlock refused to go ahead with the promotion, the publisher sued him for breach of contract. The suit was unsuccessful thanks to Mycroft's defence and a medical report from John. But word got out that Sherlock was an asocial freak, difficult to deal with, a proudly self-absorbed psychopath, who thought he was the best in the world..."

"Something Anderson had a lot to do with," Molly added. 

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips. 

"We don't know that, dear." 

The publisher, Rosie, Anthea and Irene, rolled their eyes. Mrs Hudson ignored them.

"The agent left Sherlock. No one wanted to represent him. So Mycroft began to do it, even though his career seemed over. No publisher wanted to publish his books after what happened with the first one and the fame he had made for himself. And it would have been like that if it hadn't been for Molly".

She nodded. 

"I loved the novel. It got very good reviews, and... anyway, Sherlock is not the first writer who doesn't want any contact with the public, mostly out of shyness. Emily Dickinson, Marcel Proust, or Jack Kerouac and many others also tried to prevent their success from invading their private lives. So I plucked up my courage, called Mycroft and told him that I would publish Sherlock's works, accepting his conditions. When we signed the contract, I couldn't believe it. I couldn't offer much money in advances; my publishing house was small, with few titles and not very large print runs, but Mycroft agreed, though dealing with Sherlock was not easy". 

The bookseller rolled her eyes. 

"Sherlock was very shaken by what happened with the first one, and he was afraid it would happen again. So he was quite..., acidic and rude to Molly. Thank goodness John was there, demanded him to apologise when he got rude, and making him see that Molly really admired his work.... in the end, Sherlock was convinced of Molly's good faith, and they signed the contract, although I think if you had known what was coming, you would have thought twice about it".

"Why?"

Molly chuckled. 

"As I said, my publishing house was small. Few authors, little print runs..., we were like a big family full of enthusiasm for what we were doing; we all did everything, the writers and I: we did the typesetting, designed the covers, the ads, the corrections, the marketing plans... It was wonderful. And with Sherlock's, it was the same, only I was the intermediary between him and the rest. He was very involved and as enthusiastic as we were. Plus, his novel kept getting good reviews on forums, blogs, so we were hoping for some success." 

Lestrade chuckled. Some success. 

"Two weeks later, it made The Times and New York Times top ten bestseller lists. Within a month, in the first place. I, who had never done a reprint of a book and rarely did more than a hundred copies, found myself doing print runs of fifty thousand copies and almost weekly reprints. People went crazy looking for the locators of the novel, they made fan clubs, joint readings..., translations, merchandising ...., sometimes even I get scared at the thought of it". 

"I was one of them!" exclaimed Lestrade, smiling. "After reading the novel, I went to Witches Wood, the White Lady's waterfall, Devil's Cauldron Gorge," he gestured towards Angelo "to his restaurant, to the bakery where Lena and Renatha had breakfast every day. It was great. Wherever I went, fans took photos, read the passage where the place was described, and the scene happened..., it was one of the best times of my life. I made a lot of friends, some real, some virtual, all sharing a passion for the mystery, the thriller, all like crazy trying to find out more about W. Scott and...".

He couldn't go on; The memory of Alex kept criticising that hobby and his friends until he gave it all up assaulted him. He lowered his head. It was amazing how a bitter one with Alex accompanied every happy memory. How could he have been so blind? 

"Sherlock couldn't talk face to face with readers, but he didn't mind answering them by letter or email, participating in chats with them, answering their questions..." continued Molly. Like the rest, she noticed the sudden change in Greg's mood. "Readrs loved that the same mystery that went with the books surrounded him. That way, Sherlock felt protected and continued to write".

Mrs Hudson looked regretfully at her nephew. 

"Philip couldn't cope with it. When Sherlock started refusing TV interviews, tours, book signings, he started calling him a freak, a weirdo and things like that ... He didn't understand what it would do to him psychologically. One day they had a big argument, and Anderson told him that he understood why his father beat him up. Since then, they haven't spoken to each other, and they both act as if the other didn't exist". 

"He told him that?" asked Lestrade, appalled. 

She nodded. 

"He knew it would really hurt him, as it did", she sighed. "From that day, Mycroft forbade him to participate in anything to do with Sherlock's books, except here in the bookshop. I try to intercede; it would have done Philip a lot of good to relaunch his literary career, but Mycroft was adamant."

"It wasn't just that, Martha, you know that," Rosie interjected, anger palpable in her voice. 

Mrs Hudson sighed, rubbing her temples. 

"I've got a headache. I need to go and rest. I think that's enough for today," she sighed, throwing her a warning look, getting up from her chair. 

None of them dared to contradict her. They slowly set up the chairs, said goodbye and left the bookshop. 

It was already late at night when Lestrade returned home, still wondering about what Rosie. He entered his flat, switched on the light and gasped. Someone thoroughly cleaned it and replaced the plates, cutlery and glasses that Sherlock threw away that morning. 

On the easel, a cream-coloured envelope with his name written on it. He recognised Mycroft's handwriting and frowned, not knowing what to expect. He opened it slowly and pulled out the note inside. 

He felt his eyes filling with tears again but this time, of tenderness and joy, reading it:

 _"I meant everything Sherlock explained to you. Tomorrow at nine o'clock in the bookstore"_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	9. Threats

The next morning, Lestrade woke up before dawn. He slept poorly that night, restless about his date with Mycroft. 

The lawyer proved to be so fickle that he didn't quite know what to expect that time and whether he could handle another disappointment or apparent rejection. He knew Mycroft didn't know how to do it otherwise, but he was unwittingly hurting him. 

He took a shower, got dressed and put the coffee pot on. He was drinking his coffee in small sips, thinking, when he heard a gentle knock at the door. Lestrade looked at the clock, bewildered; it wasn't even six o'clock in the morning. The possibility of Alex being on the other side made him cringe. He carefully put the cup down on the sink, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

A new knock, this time a little louder but with the explicit intention of not disturbing anyone. He grimaced in annoyance. The light in the flat was clearly visible from below the door from the dark outside corridor. The knocker did not seem to have any intention of stopping until someone opened the door. He took off his shoes, slowly approached to look through the peephole and sighed with relief; it was not his ex but a man in his sixties with perfectly combed, wavy, grey hair. He chuckled inwardly at being frightened and opened the door. 

"I apologise for bothering you", started the man politely before he could say anything. "I must deliver this packet to the flat next door, but it seems no one is at home". 

The man did indeed have one in his hands, wrapped in paper with Hooper's Publishing's letterhead, Molly's publishing house. Lestrade looked more closely at the man, neatly groomed and impeccably dressed in a three-piece dark brown suit, his tie perfectly knotted and quite tight. He was tall and robust and must have been even stronger in his younger years. His piercing, grey eyes watched him closely. 

Somehow, his features were familiar, but Lestrade could not remember where he may have met him. Not very convinced, he made no gesture of accepting the parcel.

"This is for Mr Holmes. It's vital that I deliver it," he insisted, in a deep, supplicant voice. "I'm about to retire and, with the young people coming into the company..., look at me, an errand boy at my age. Miss Hooper is very demanding. Would you give it to him? I'll lose my job if Mr Holmes doesn't get it". 

"Of course, don't worry, I will give it to Sherlock", Lestrade answered, feeling sorry for him. 

At Alex's company, there were workers close to retirement that were put aside like old furniture, ignoring the experience and knowledge they accumulated throughout their working years. The man sighed, clearly relieved. 

"I am very grateful to you, Mr ..."

"Lestrade, Greg Lestrade" he held out his hand, which the man shook with authority and unusual strength for his age. 

"I really appreciate it, Mr Lestrade. You just saved my job. Let me again apologise for disturbing you at this time in the morning". 

"Don't worry; I was awake". he smiled.

The man smiled back and disappeared down the corridor at a quick pace; he should have more packages to deliver, thought Lestrade. 

He was surprised that Sherlock or John didn't open the door. He knew they spent the night in the flat because he heard them talking until late. They must have gone out when he was still asleep. Perhaps, John had an emergency, and Sherlock decided to go to one of the few libraries open twenty-four hours a day to look for a book he needed to research for his novel, as he saw him do several nights. 

Being from Molly, it must be essential for the presentation and urgent. After scribbling a note, he left it leaning against the door of the couple's flat. 

Completely clear after the man's visit, he decided to walk to the bookstore to meet Mycroft. It was almost an hour away, but the walk would help him relax and clear his head. 

Thinking about what happened during those days, he realized that, mistakenly, he expected Mycroft to show the same overwhelming confidence in all areas of his life that he showed in the car the first day they met. At no time did it occur to him that such firmness would also serve to cover up a fear of being close and vulnerable, of opening his heart, of showing his feelings. He now knew his distant coldness was only a shield to protect him from pain; an armour that Mycroft had identified with so much that he could no longer tell it apart from himself, created in the face of his father's horrific claims: " _caring is not an advantage, love is a chemical defect_ ". That was devastating for a child's emotional development. 

He tried to imagine Mycroft's childhood without a caress or a loving gesture from his parents. Not that his own parents were particularly affectionate, but they kissed and hugged him often, at least when they were happy or brought good grades. The eldest Holmes did not show a phobia of physical contact like his brother. Still, it was clear that he was not used to another human being's physical closeness, let alone any kind of intimacy.

The painter had only seen him relax when he was concentrating on his work. Then, he approached him a little, unconsciously mimicking his gestures, until he realised what he was doing and returned to his usual distance. 

But it wasn't easy for him either. He had never been the one to initiate an affective relationship or to try to flirt with someone he liked. He didn't consider himself attractive, valuable or witty enough to charm anyone. For this reason, he always limited himself to accepting those who wanted to go out with him or flirt with him. 

He realised that in his flat. When he met Alex, he never asked himself if he liked him if he was the kind of person he wanted to go out with; he simply felt flattered and grateful that he noticed him, that he wanted to be with him. He didn't consider himself entitled to more. 

Lestrade crossed the park, breathing in with delight the fresh morning grass' aroma, while his mind relaxed, contemplating the multitude of greens that made up the landscape before him: the darkest of the grass, the light and dark of the trees’ leaves in all their shapes, the notes of colour here and there of the flowers. 

The park was quite lonely at that moment, just a couple of kids walking their dogs, several runners, and, a little further on, a man sitting on a bench, engrossed in his phone.

He turned his attention back to the trees, thinking that, with Mycroft, their relationship had been different from the start. Of course, he was flattered by the interest he showed in him, but he knew from the first moment that he liked him that he really wanted to be with him. Those days lying on his bunk, after the fright from the court, when he kept repeating to himself that he should forget about Mycroft, a stubborn voice inside him always replied that he should not. It was a kind of hunch, an absolute conviction he didn't know where he was coming from, which, over and over again, assured him that Mycroft was the person he had always wanted to have by his side but hadn't allowed himself to look for. 

Immersed in his thoughts, he didn't realise that the man, after putting his phone in his pocket, got up and followed him at a prudent distance that was getting shorter with every step. 

Lestrade smiled to himself, aware of how Mycroft made decisions for him without taking his opinion into account but guessing with complete certainty what he wanted to do at each moment. At no point, he told him that he wanted to pursue the appeal, but he had taken it for granted without...

He yelled, scared, when someone grabbed him tightly by the chest with one arm, covering his mouth with his hand to drown out his yells. He tried to get away, but the man was much larger, taller and stronger than he was, and easily dragged him into a spot hidden by vegetation and smashed his back into a tree. 

Lestrade opened his mouth to shout when he recognised him but was speechless when another man appeared in the bushes. 

"Why don't you answer my messages?" he asked with contempt and disgust.

Lestrade shrank. Alex's closeness, his threatening tone, and the memories immobilised him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to speak. 

"Who gave you permission to speak to Henry King?"

He froze at the name and looked at him with horror. His ex-husband cracked a laugh. 

"Did you think I wouldn't find out? You were always a real idiot. He phoned me as soon as you left. He knows what's good for him," he smiled a hard smile full of contempt and moved closer to him "and you, Greg, do you know what's good for you?"

He choked back a sob, trying to control the tremor in his body, realizing the man who had dragged him into the bushes, Tom, stood behind his ex, arms folded, watching for any attempt by the painter to escape. 

"I asked you a question," Alex grunted, holding his face to force him to look at him. 

"I... I didn't know, I swear, I didn't know that..." 

"What didn't you know?"

He shook his head, looking for an answer, but his brain, paralysed by fear, refused to work. 

"How did you find him?"

New refusal. 

"It was the meddlesome lawyer, then, who found him".

Lestrade did not move. He shivered, staring at the floor, unable to look at him. He knew that his attitude would incur Alex's wrath, but he did not want to compromise Sherlock or Mycroft.

Alex pushed him hard against the tree again. Lestrade felt the trunk knots dig into his back and clenched his teeth so as not to whimper in pain. 

"First, you have the gall to hire a lawyer and appeal our divorce, and then you stick your nose into my business", he hissed. "Haven't you learned anything after five years?"

Lestrade nodded, terrified. Alex stared at him threateningly. He grabbed his face with his hand, plunging his thumb and forefinger into his cheeks until he hurt him. 

"Right now, you're going to tell your lawyer you're off the case. That you never want to hear from him again. And then you're going to pack your bags and get out of the flat. I want you to disappear. I know where you live. And I'll know if you try to fool me. I don't want to hear from you again". 

The painter nodded again, closing his eyes, his heart almost coming out of his chest with every beat. He just wanted it to be over, that Alex to let him go. 

"First thing tomorrow morning, I want your lawyer's resignation in court, understood?"

Lestrade repeatedly nodded, panting, tears of fear running down his cheeks. 

"Don't make me hurt you. You saw King. Do you want to end up like him?"

He shook his head. Alex let go of his face, and Lestrade slowly dropped to the ground, hid his face in his arms and cried, trying to catch his breath, to release the black, sticky fear that once again constricted his chest. 

"Keep crying. That's all you are useful for. First thing tomorrow morning. Otherwise, you know what's going on".

With that, they went away, their steps crunching on the bed of dry leaves accumulated under the trees. 

Lestrade did not know how long he sat there, afraid that he would appear again. It wasn't the first time that, when it seemed that it was over, Alex came back for him. 

He took the phone out of his trouser pocket with a trembling hand, barely managed to text and turned it off to avoid reading the answer. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the trunk, breathing in hard, waiting for his legs to hold him up again, for the panic to go away. 

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he heard footsteps returning to him. 

"Will you explain to me at once what is going on?" 

A sob of relief escaped him as he heard Mycroft's worried voice. He opened his eyes, and in tears, looked at his concerned face, his scowl, his grey eyes that watched him closely. He wondered how he knew he was there for a few seconds but concluded that Mycroft somehow knew everything. 

The lawyer gazed at the leaf litter around Lestrade and then at his immaculate suit; resignedly, he sat down next to him, as carefully as if he were sitting sit on a fakir's bed. He stirred a bit, grimacing as he settled, crunching the dry leaves and twigs under him. 

"Gregory, I don't want to pressure you. If you want us to drop the appeal and the other lawsuits, I'll do it right now. It's your decision, But I would like to know why". 

He lowered his head, unable to respond, embarrassed by failing him in that way. It was clear why he was rejecting him. Who would want to be next to a coward like him?

"Is it because of Alex's threats?

He looked at him, dumbfounded. How on earth...?

"Sherlock texted me yesterday. I hacked into your phone and read them. 

Lestrade's jaw dropped. 

"Sherlock?... hacked it?" he was so surprised that it didn't even cross his mind to get angry. 

"Actually, it was Irene. Before becoming a lawyer, she was a hacker and had her ups and downs with the law," he explained without giving it any importance. "I need to know everything before going to court the day after tomorrow. As I said, if you want to back out, that's your right. But believe me, I know guys like Alex. He won't stop even if you do. He won't stop until he breaks you down". 

Lestrade shuddered

"He was here," he whispered in a voice. 

"Alex?"

He nodded. 

"He knew about Henry King. He said he called him as soon as Sherlock and I left. He swore I would end up like him. I don't understand, God, I don't understand how I could have been so stupid, how I wasn't able to realize it the first time I met him... God," he sobbed, covering his eyes with his hand, ashamed and disgusted with himself. 

Mycroft stood up, shaking the leaves off his trousers. He pulled out a wet towelette and wiped his hands with it. 

"Come with me",. 

Lestrade looked up at the lawyer's outstretched hand, then at his serious but affable face, nearly as he painted it the day before, an almost impossible mixture of firmness and tenderness. 

Mycroft nodded, bringing his hand closer. Lestrade, hesitating, grabbed it. The lawyer pulled him up, helping him get up, and without letting him go, started to walk. Surprised but delighted, the painter settled down in his tracks. He had no idea what was going on; he only knew that the fear vanished when he took Mycroft's hand. 

"Where are we going?"

"To your flat". 

"Why?

"Do you trust me?

Calmly, he nodded vehemently. More than anyone else in the world, he thought, amazed at how Mycroft, as a good lawyer, kept adding a small dose of theatricality to everything he did. They arrived at his apartment building. Lestrade opened and headed for the lift, but Mycroft pulled it in the direction of the stairs. 

"Are you kidding? It's on twelve floors. 

"Wait for me upstairs, then", he snapped, nimbly climbing the steps.

He sighed and followed him, wondering how he would make it up the twelve floors if after the first one was already panting like an old locomotive. 

"Take the lift to the next floor," advised the lawyer without stopping. 

"If you can't get on it, I can't either". 

He smiled proudly, noticing the surprise on Mycroft's face, followed by a hint of a smile. Accustomed to everyone throwing their "quirks" in his face, Mycroft still found it difficult to process that someone not only understood them but wanted to share them. 

Lestrade bent down, trying to catch his breath on the fifth floor, while Mycroft, who wasn't even panting, waited patiently on one of the landings. He was clearly uncomfortable on those narrow stairs. Still, the light coming in through the windows made it easier for him, and he was cautious about breathing calmly so as not to hyperventilate and control his anxiety. When Lestrade recovered, he resumed the climb without effort until he reached the twelfth floor and left the stairs, while Lestrade practically crawled through the last stretch. God, he had to get in shape. 

"What does this mean?" he heard Mycroft ask, the alarm evident in his voice. 

"We are going back to Baker Street" was the angry response he heard from John. 

Lestrade's soul fell to his feet. He forgot that neither he nor Sherlock belonged there and would return to their previous lives sooner or later. He felt a twinge of fear mixed with anxiety at the thought of staying there alone, now that Alex knew where he lived. He hadn't realised how protected he felt having them by his side until he knew they were leaving. 

"But Sherlock..." protested Mycroft as Lestrade appeared on the stairs behind him, trying to hide his disappointment and fear. 

John came out of the flat with a large cardboard box in his hands, dodging other boxes accumulated in the entrance. When he saw Lestrade, he dropped it on the floor and advanced to him with a threatening air, so much so that Lestrade walked backwards until he hit the wall. 

"Where did you get the bloody package?" he grunted. 

"I..., a man gave it to me..., it came from the publisher," stammered Lestrade, fearful that he could have made a big mistake. 

"What package?" asked Mycroft. 

At that moment, the lift doors opened, and Anthea came from it and, merely bowed her head in greeting, disappeared inside the flat. Mycroft set out to follow her, but John stood in his way, preventing him from doing so. 

"John, I demand to know what is going on here," roared the lawyer, in a tone that would have frozen anyone's veins. But not the neurosurgeon's, who stared at him, unmoved, his arms crossed, standing in front of the door. Although Mycroft was much taller than he was, he didn't dare to push him away. 

"Who gave you the package?" growled John, turning his attention back to Lestrade. 

He swallowed. 

"A man." 

John huffed, exasperated, and Lestrade, frightened, noticed that he was about to lose what little patience he had. Even on the day they invited him to lunch, he didn't saw him like this, so threatening, so mad, so... dangerous. For a moment, he feared that he could strangle him. 

"He said he worked for Molly, that it was important to Sherlock," he explained anxiously, feeling increasingly stupid. "He was a man in his sixties, tall, well dressed, grey hair, grey eyes…"

He paused when Mycroft turned to face him, horrified. 

"Is he all right?" he then asked John, concern and shock palpable in his voice. 

John shook his head. 

Lestrade looked at both of them with bewilderment. Then, looking at Mycroft, he realised the man's resemblance to him. Those eyes...

"Oh, my God," he muttered in horror, covering his mouth with his hand, as he realised the mistake he had made. "Oh, I'm sorry, I..., it's impossible no, he was so... kind". 

"That's Siger, just like a snake. Charming when he wants to be, and just as poisonous," spat Mycroft.

How the hell did he know where we are?" roared an angry and worried John.

"I don't know, John. I had everything under control and…" answered Mycroft, sounding puzzled.

"Clearly not"!!!!” roared John, clenching his fists to the sky, his yell echoing down the corridor.

Lestrade looked at him, shocked and fascinated. He seemed to have nothing to do with the gentle John he had known up to then. And what was even more frightening, he was making an effort to restrain himself.

Mycroft, on the contrary, seemed to understand where John's anger and concern lay.

"What was in the parcel?”

John looked inside the flat and entered, followed by Mycroft and a repentant Lestrade. It was deserted, so Anthea and Sherlock must be in the bedroom. 

John took a couple of books from the table and handed them to Mycroft. He stood there, for a moment, paralysed, breathless. Slowly, his hand trembling a bit, he reached out for them, swallowing hard to undo the knot in his throat; when his eyes settled on one of them, his chin began to tremble, as he blinked, trying to keep his eyes from filling with tears. 

"God Almighty", he mused. 

Lestrade looked at the books blankly. One was a very worn and old copy of Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings", the other was a new copy of Stephen King's "The Institute". Mycroft reached into his pockets and pulled out a tissue with which he took the older one with caution, turning it to look at the front and back covers. 

"My father used to read us excerpts from this book when I was fourteen and Sherlock seven", he muttered, hatred distilling in his words, "We panicked. Sherlock had horrible nightmares, in which he dreamt of Sauron's eye watching us from the wall above our beds as we slept. Sometimes he woke up screaming, terrified. Other times, I found him standing awake and totally disoriented in the middle of the room. Our bedroom was huge, like all the rooms in the house. Asleep, he got out of his bed in the middle of a nightmare, fleeing from the Orcs, or Uruk-hai, or Nazgül, wake up in the middle of the room, and called me, terrified. He came to my bed, and we fell asleep together. I assured him that he had nothing to worry about, that I would take care of the eye, the orcs and all the dark lords. I even told him that I had a sword to kill the orcs, but I hide it so that Dad wouldn't find it. Of course, I never told him that I was terrified. A wicked psychological torture," he looked at John, concerned, "If he had to call Anthea..."

"Don't worry. He managed to control the panic attack. That's not why we called her. Look at the other book," he said, tending it, without giving him a chance to ask what Anthea was doing there then. 

Mycroft frowned and picked it up, looking at the cover carefully. He closed his eyes for a few moments and looked at John, scared. 

"Is Rosie all right?"

"Yes, I told her not to leave your house under any circumstances until Irene arrives there". 

"Rosie?" asked Lestrade, puzzled. 

Mycroft showed him the book's cover. At first, it looked like the familiar cover with a child's silhouette sitting on a bed in a small room until he realised that the child's shape had been replaced by Rosie's. 

"You know what Siger wants, don't you?" asked Mycroft. 

John nodded. 

"Why do you think I'm still here?

Mycroft smiled ruefully. Lestrade stared at them, expectantly, not understanding any of the conversation, full of over-understood but not daring to ask. Although he seemed to have calmed down, John was still quite angry, and it wouldn't take much to make him explode. 

"John, I think you should..." started Mycroft. 

"We're leaving," the neurosurgeon cut him off sharply.

Mycroft watched him silently but said nothing. He knew from experience that making John change his mind once he took a decision was virtually impossible. 

"Sherlock was afraid that something like this might happen," Lestrade muttered, looking at the book. 

Mycroft shook his head, looking at him in disbelief, and Lestrade saw the doubt flashing in his eyes. 

"No, it's not possible; how?" he rubbed his face in despair. "How did he imagine that something like this... was that scum Wilkes? Or fucking Anderson?"

John shrugged, staring at Lestrade, who felt a chill run down his back and barely held back the urge to hide behind Mycroft. 

"I have no idea. He didn't tell me. You know how your brother is when he shuts down. But Greg does". 

"Don't say..." Mycroft stopped when he turned to look at him, dazed and bewildered. 

"I didn't mean to", Lestrade mumbled, shattered, noting the disappointment in his eyes. 

John stared at him. 

"What?"

He couldn't believe the anger with which John uttered that word. Mycroft turned to look at him, incredulous. 

"Why?"

"It was unintentional! He... guessed it when we went to see King". 

John took a step towards him, lips pursed in a thin line and fists clenched. Lestrade stepped back again in awe. 

"Wait, John" Mycroft stood between the two of them. "Greg, tell us what happened". 

The painter, in a shaking voice, told them all that had happened yesterday. To his relief, as he spoke, he watched John relax his shoulders and hands, and although his face was still serious and worried, it no longer showed anger. 

"He didn't stand a chance" Mycroft's relief was palpable. 

John nodded. Lestrade looked at them both, lost. 

"Sherlock didn't tell you all that in an aim to share life experiences," he explained. "He was interrogating you, in a way you didn't realize it. Anyway, this was going to happen sooner or later. Now I understand why he hasn't slept a wink or eaten anything since yesterday. What I don't get is why he imagined something like this would happen".

"He said Siger knew that there would be something worse than killing him". 

John's worried gesture became outright murderous. 

"I will kill that son of a bitch with my own hands. I will tear his skin off until he begs me to kill him." he hissed murderously between his teeth. 

Lestrade shuddered at the violence with which he spoke. 

John looked at him, trembling with rage, his jaw clenched completely. He tried to control his breathing, clenching his fists tightly and releasing them.

"That is precisely what he is looking for. To get you away from Sherlock, so he becomes an easy target. Don't do anything stupid, John," begged Mycroft.

"I know. Sherlock told me. that's why I didn't go looking for him". 

The bedroom door opened and a pale but calm and collected Sherlock appeared and approached them, followed by Anthea. 

"Maybe you should carry those boxes down and calm down a bit, John", she suggested. 

He looked about to send her to hell. 

"We already talked and decided what to do. He won't do anything on his own," assured Sherlock persuasively, in a calm and reassuring voice. 

To Lestrade's amazement, John let out a long sigh and calmed almost immediately. He nodded and stroked Sherlock's cheek, concerned. 

"Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely," he said emphatically.

Still worried, he turned to Anthea. 

"Do you think so too?"

She just nodded. 

"What are you sure about?" asked Mycroft, impatiently, watching the three of them alternately. 

When he got no answer, he pulled out his phone. 

"Right now, you three are going to.." 

He couldn't finish the sentence because Sherlock took it out of his hand. 

"Mycroft, we are going to do it our way." 

He watched him with concern and turned to John. 

"Please talk some sense into him." 

"We are not going to hide until the presentation," replied his brother. 

"We will get him. It's all set..."

"What if Siger doesn't show up?" shouted Sherlock. "He knows that we left Baker Street, where I am, that John beat Wilkes…" he pointed at Stephen King's book " he even was here and didn't try anything! What you want us to do? Hide in a hole until he shows up? What about John's job? What about Rosie's future? Siger fucked up my life, but I won't let him do the same to them. Nor am I willing to let him continue playing cat and mouse with my family".

Mycroft watched him for a few moments and shook his head. He took a few seconds before speaking, carefully choosing his words. 

"I will protect Rosie. I will ll protect John and you. But you have to...". 

"No." 

"Sherlock, for God's sake. He already tried to kill you once! Do you want to...?" 

Lestrade watched him, horrified. 

"That's exactly why," replied his brother, looking at him with a determined gesture.

His brother looked at John and Anthea. They looked worried but as determined as Sherlock. 

"You agree with him," he sighed, defeated, looking at the first one. 

"He is right". 

Mycroft sat slowly in a nearby chair and hid his face in his hands, sunk. 

"Mycroft, I know you're worried," Sherlock said softly, approaching him. "But I don't want to spend my life wondering if Rosie will come home every time she goes out of the flat. Or if one day John won't come back after going to the hospital. I've spent too much time in fear. I don't want to live like this. I can't do this to them. Not to them, not to myself. I can't let Siger keep controlling my life. Please, Myc," he ended, knowing that the name would break down his brother's last resistance. 

Mycroft pulled his hands away from his face and looked at him in despair, torn between wanting to protect his younger brother and accepting that what he was saying made perfect sense. Finally, he nodded. 

"What's the plan, then?" he sighed. 

"You'll know in time". 

"John..."

"In due course". 

Mycroft went to protest but changed his mind and closed his mouth. 

"Why are you doing this to him?" Lestrade's cry surprised everyone. "He has been protecting you all his life, looking after you, even being as scared as you are... and now why don't you explain it to him? Why are you treating him like this?"

There was a shocked silence as everyone watched the angry Lestrade, who, with clenched fists, shook with rage in the middle of the room. Even he couldn't understand how he had been able to shout at them. But he couldn't tolerate the injustice they were doing to Mycroft. He didn't want him to suffer any longer, to be left out when he only wanted to protect Sherlock, as he had always done, nor understanding either Mycroft's lack of insistence. 

He lowered his head, embarrassed and a little scared. All the tension built up inside him exploded, and now, after his outburst, he didn't quite know what to do. 

"Greg, they are not leaving Mycroft aside; they are helping him," explained Anthea gently. 

He frowned. Helping him?

"My need for control", explained Mycroft, a bit ashamed, but Greg also noticed a pride in his shining eyes, a mixture of pride and... adoration? Gratitude? He couldn't define it, but he liked what he saw.

"What John said, in due course, doesn't imply that I'm being excluded or sidelined, but that I should wait and... not try to control everything..." Mycroft muttered as if to remind himself.

He looked at Lestrade.

"Thank you," he muttered, as Lestrade blushed with a mixture of pride and shyness, especially watching Sherlock and John's amused gesture.

Mycroft remained silent for a few moments, biting his lower lip, looking at her. Finally, he took a deep breath. 

"Just let me call Roger to reinforce up security at home," he asked, reaching out for John to return his phone. 

"He already did it," replied this one. 

Mycroft frowned. 

"Roger hasn't notified me of anything". 

"I asked him to," explained Sherlock. 

His brother rolled his eyes. 

"He bribes him with dedicated first copies of his novels," he explained to Lestrade, in a tone that ranged from annoying to amused; he clearly was proud of achieving let John taking control of the situation. 

"Come on, let's get the boxes. We better leave as soon as possible," ordered John. 

Mycroft huffed but said anything and simply left the flat after John. Lestrade followed them while Sherlock and Anthea stayed in the flat. 

"What about your surgeries?" asked Mycroft once they were out. 

"I asked Sholto to stand in for me until the presentation. I can't concentrate, and I want to be by Sherlock and Rosie's side. We also don't have any critical surgery scheduled, and no one better than him to replace me" turned to Lestrade "he was my mentor when I started my career. A difficult guy, but I learned a lot from him". 

The painter nodded. John bent down to pick up a couple of boxes, and Mycroft came over to help him. 

"Thank you, Mycroft. I know it's not easy for you". 

"No, it's me who should thank you, John. Are there many more?" he said, then, in a tone that meant to be calm and even casual, as he effortlessly lifted a box full of books. 

"No, we are just going to take what Sherlock won't let anyone touch, which means I have to carry them," he smiled half mockingly, coming back to the door for more.

"That's because you are the stronger of the two of us", the writer flattered him, sorting the apartment and pecking his lips, leaving a couple of books on the last box that John just left on the floor. 

"No, no way. Your sweet talk won't get you out of carrying them. I asked you three times if you wanted me to put something else in this box, and you completely ignored me". 

Sherlock huffed with annoyance. 

"I was taking my notes off the wall". 

"And I was carrying your boxes". 

The waiter rolled his eyes and disappeared inside without saying anything. John chuckled, shaking his head. 

Lestrade could not help but admire them. Both, tired and visibly worried, tried to be as calm as possible, each trying not to worry or alarm more the other. 

He tried to do the same, remain calm, and ignore the fear of being left alone in his flat, now that Alex knew where he was. 

"Time for you to pick up what you want to take with you. A moving company will pack the rest and bring it home," ordered Mycroft, noticing the change in his mood. 

"Take it with me?"

"Given your ex's threats, you're not going to stay here, especially now that Sherlock and John are leaving. Since there is no room for you in Baker Street, I prepared a room for you in my house," he muttered, blushing slightly but stretching himself, raising his right eyebrow in a smug gesture which, Lestrade now knew, the lawyer was using to hide his dismay. 

"You can always go to 221C or Mrs Hudson, but Mycroft prefers you to go with him," John teased him, disregarding the murderous look that a deep blushed Mycroft threw him. 

Lestrade bit his lips to keep from laughing, grateful and just as embarrassed as him, barely holding back the urge to rush out and kiss him. He had to admit that he loved the way he looked after him. Mycroft's constant concern for his welfare was undeniable, as well as his warm and caring heart. And that made him fall more and more in love with Mycroft. 

John put one heavy box in his arms. Lestrade was grateful to have something to occupy him to stop gawking at the lawyer. 

"Great, you can help us take His Majesty's things to the lift." 

"Stop complaining. Have you forgotten about when we moved to Baker Street?" the writer mocked, leaving another one beside the painter. 

"He moved in first and filled the house with so much junk that I thought it was just rubbish we had to throw away", he explained, amusingly.

"I didn't hear you complaining about the armchair I brought for you", retorted Sherlock, taking out another box. 

In a tender gesture, John stirred his black curly hair, which had turned grey from the dust; the writer smiled delighted, kissed him, and then put his hands behind his back to stretch out it. He looked up at Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow. 

"Not in your wildest dreams," he replied. 

He pointed to the door of Lestrade's flat. He nodded and went inside, taking a look around. Apart from his sketchbook, painting tools, and little teddy bear, he didn't want to take anything else. 

He put everything in a box, making sure that the cuddly little bear was well hidden under the sketchbooks so that Mycroft couldn't see it. With the carton in his hand, he turned on himself. 

It might seem that he had gone to worse. He arrived with ten boxes and left with only one. But it was the opposite. He finally got rid of the heavy burden he had been dragging around for a too long time, a suffocating and depressing load.

There, locked in those nine boxes, was his past, the memory of the five years he spent with the man he believed to be his soul mate, with whom he was in love and, as he wrongly believed, he loved him back. Now Lestrade saw him in a new light. A new light under which he could no longer ignore all that he always tried not to see in Alex, mainly in those hard nights of tears and loneliness, a voice that he ever drowned out, feared of listening to it. 

Suddenly, the idea of taking the rest of the things with him seemed repulsive. So much so that he asked Mycroft to destroy them. 

"We will do better," the lawyer promised, understanding the rejection they caused in Lestrade, the myriad of feelings that crossed his face as he looked around his tiny flat. 

That brought him back to that cold winter night over twenty years ago, the night he and Sherlock fled their parents' home, taking with them only a bag with some of their clothes, some food and some money. Neither of them wanted to take anything else, neither of them would miss anything; everything, no matter how beautiful and expensive it was, carried too many bitter and painful memories. 

He remembered the metallic blow of the iron gate as it closed behind them, the same as always, but which he found thundering that night, like the street that stretched out in front of them, damp and dark on that winter night. They walked it every day, but at that moment, it seemed terrifying and defiant. Once they took the first step, there would be no turning back. 

He stood there, doubtful. He looked at Sherlock, who, at eleven years of age, being so thin, looking much smaller, even more holding on to his hand and clinging in fear to the stuffed bee he bought him a couple of months earlier, in an attempt to make him feel better. Mycroft looked at him, worried. What if he was making a mistake? What if, however badly they were at home, what was in store for them was worse? What if something happened to his little brother because of him?

Sherlock, noticing his hesitation, pulled at his sleeve. 

"Let's go, Myc," he pleaded, turning his head to look at the mansion at the end of the long path. 

Reading in his little face, the dread that his father would appear behind them was enough to encourage him to take the first step and go into that suddenly unknown and unsafe street. No matter how bad what lay ahead, it would never be as horrible as they left behind. 

So he knew what he had to do with Lestrade's things. He and Sherlock did the same thing with all his belongings in his house when their father got in prison. 

But first, Lestrade had to know something else. 

"The van is waiting downstairs", announced Anthea's voice. 

"Could we... could we see Baker Street before we go to your house?" asked Lestrade, looking at him with pleading eyes. 

Mycroft looked at him, baffled by one-thousandth of a second. Then he rolled his eyes. 

"I forgot that you are a fan of W. Scott," he sighed, as Lestrade nodded vehemently, his eyes brightening. "Okay, I will take you to see where he does the magic," he agreed, in the tone of a resigned father who can't refuse his son's wishes. 

Lestrade held back the impulse to clap his hands. He smiled, charmed, and hugged him tightly, kissing a surprised and embarrassed Mycroft on the cheek, who hugged him back a moment later. He closed his eyes and, summoning up his courage, gave him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, blushing like a teenager and then trying to get rid of the painter's embrace. Still, he prevented him from moving, while Mycroft blushed like a teenager and Lestrade couldn't help but feel an immense tenderness when he realized that it was the first time he had ever dared to kiss anyone. By the time he was forty, Mycroft had found his first love. 

"I'm... I'm sorry," he stammered, worried that Lestrade got upset. 

He smiled nervously. In a way, he was discovering his first love too. Because he realized that what he always considered him as love, what had felt for Alex or one of the short engagements he had had before, was not love. Perhaps admiration, gratitude for being chosen by his partners, or dependence, but not that happiness and joy that enveloped him when Mycroft embraced him. And, although he could not help feeling certain vertigo, he wouldn't change it for anything. 

They spent a few minutes looking at each other intensely until Mycroft cleared his throat and glanced around, but Sherlock, John and Anthea had disappeared inside their flat. 

"We have to..." he grumbled. 

He didn't want to stop hugging Lestrade, and if they were alone and anywhere else, he wouldn't have limited himself to that peck, but he didn't want his first kiss to be in that dreary building either. 

Lestrade nodded, just as reluctantly, understanding what he meant. He blushed and smiled shyly when Anthea came out, amused, with several folders in her hand, followed by a Sherlock who gave his brother a mocking look, giving him a parcel and finally John with a big "it was about time" written on his face. 

They set the boxes on the elevator, while Sherlock, with the excuse of making sure they didn't leave anything behind, disappeared into the flat. 

Anthea and John went down in the lift, while Lestrade and Mycroft went down the stairs. As they walked down the fifth floor, they heard rapid footsteps, and Sherlock appeared behind them. 

"Don't you miss anything?" asked his brother without stopping, holding back the urge to run to get out of the stairwell as soon as possible but managing to keep precisely the same pace on each floor, followed by a perfectly timed Lestrade. 

For a moment, Sherlock stared at him as if he didn't know what he was talking about, his brow furrowed and his mind elsewhere. 

"No". 

They arrived downstairs, where a black van was waiting for them. Between John, Mycroft, Anthea and Lestrade they charge the boxes on it, while Sherlock, slightly apart, typed into his phone without paying attention to them, although the painter noticed the glances he exchanged with John from time to time. After a few minutes, Sherlock looked directly at him; the neurosurgeon nodded almost imperceptibly, and the writer pressed a key. 

John climbed into the second row of seats next to Anthea, while Mycroft and Lestrade settled into the driver and passenger's seats. The lawyer, who of course noticed everything, looked at him in the rear-view mirror. 

"John, can you at least tell me what this is all about?" he muttered, worried and exasperated, his self-control weakening. 

"Don't worry, you'll find out," replied John, watching a couple on the pavement which, after stopping to read something on her mobile phone, hailed a cab with a big fuss "sooner than you think". 

The lawyer looked at him for a few moments, making an almost physical effort not to keep asking. John looked at the writer, still out of the van, who seemed lost in his thoughts. 

"Sherlock!" he shouted out of the window, "We are leaving!"

He nodded, put his phone in his pocket, and ran to the van, which he got into as Mycroft pulled away, driving fast through the streets of London. A quarter of an hour later, he stopped it in front of a black door, where a smiling and anxious Mrs Hudson was waiting for them, while a large dark sedan parked a little further on. 

"It's so great to have you here," she exclaimed, cheering Rosie, who practically jumped out of the car to meet her. "You were looking forward to coming back, weren't you?

The girl nodded. 

"Too many timetables and schedules at Uncle Myc's house," she whispered into her ear, and they both chuckled as he watched them with a raised eyebrow and silently walked into the building. 

"I made you some tea and scones," she smiled to John as he approached to greet her while Sherlock slipped away upstairs, though he couldn't escape the bookseller's critical eye. 

"You'd better eat something, young man," she ordered. 

Lestrade watched them, amused. No matter how grown up they were, the two brothers behaved almost like children in her presence, as most adults did when reunited with their parents. Rosie must think the same because she laughed, amused, and urged him to follow her up the stairs to 221 B. 

When they disappeared, Irene, trying to conceal her concern, got out of the black car and approached Anthea, taking some things from the van. She was about to kiss her when Mrs Hudson came next to them. 

"Now, tell me what is going on".

"You don't have anything to worry about, Martha," Anthea reassured her. 

She raised an eyebrow defiantly. 

"Young woman, Sherlock and Mycroft may seem closed arks to the rest of the world, but I read them like an open book, so don't give me that crap. Of course, I could corner Sherlock to get the truth out of him, but I don't think this is the right time to do it, is it, Anthea? 

She looked sideways at Irene, who shrugged and waved her hands helplessly. The therapist sighed.

"All right, but bear in mind that my professional secret..."

"Nonsense, what you can't tell me, Irene will. She has no professional secret". 

Both smirked, shaking their heads in amused disbelief. No matter how much they knew Martha, her resolution never ceased to amaze them. 

In 221B, Rosie led an elated Lestrade into the spacious living room, where Mycroft sat in a large black leather armchair, opposite an older one with an English flag cushion near the fireplace. Lestrade's gaze fell on a yellow-painted smiley on the opposite wall, inside which were several holes. He walked up to it, gaping. 

"Are they... are they bullet holes?"

Rosie smiled. 

"Sherlock doesn't do very well with writer's block," she replied mockingly. 

"I wasn't blocked; I was studying the trajectory of the bullets," he retorted, offended, leaving his laptop and several folders on the already crowded table. 

John snorted, placing one of the boxes by the fireplace. 

"Sitting in your armchair shooting blind?"

Sherlock stuck out his tongue but did not respond. The painter turned to John and, surprised, went over to look at a skull on the mantelpiece. 

"And this?"

"An annoying fan", quipped Sherlock, joining John and Rosie in the kitchen, as Lestrade continued to look closely at the books piled up next to the wall and the shelves packed with books, papers and documents. 

He noticed one with several files and books and opened his eyes immensely realizing they were the manuscripts of Sherlock's novels, each next to a copy of the book. The file cabinets were wide, which led him to deduce that they contained the works' different drafts until the final version and then the title. 

On another shelf, neatly arranged, were recent copies of different neurosurgical medical journals, along with books on forensics, criminal psychology and other reference manuals that he supposed Rosie used for her studies. 

On a large rectangular wooden table next to one of the livingroom's large windows, a wooden table surrounded by three chairs. Next to where Sherlock left his laptop and a voluminous folder with all his notes, a small but powerful printer and several filing cabinets were stacked haphazardly. 

He smiled, amused, looking at a large black mug with the slogan " _Fuck off, I'm writing_ " printed in white on both sides. On it, squeezed and intermingled pencils, pens and markers of different brands, shapes and sizes.

On the binders on one side, there were countless blocks of sticky notes, adhesive markers and sheets of different colours; in a small tray decorated with the cover of one of his books, a jumble of erasers, pencil sharpeners, paper clips and pins; all of it right next to a desk organizer that only accumulated dust. 

"I gave it to him in the hope he organized the table a bit," said Mycroft behind him. "But the order reminds him of our parents' house. Everything had its place and had to be perfectly placed at all times. Everything was order, neatness, schedules, routines... That's why he is so chaotic. The opposite is asphyxiating for him".

Lestrade understood then where Mycroft's obsession with order and routine came from. His house was, of course, the perfect reflection of his parents', as was his life, correctly programmed down to the smallest detail. 

"I wish it weren't so," mused the lawyer, reading his thoughts, "but... I can't help it. The disorder, however small, causes me great anguish. I am working on it with my therapist, and I made great progress. Like Sherlock, though it doesn't seem like it."

Both chuckled, looking around.

"When Sherlock and I lived in the 221C, I couldn't get into his room. The absolute chaos that reigned in it gave me anxiety attacks. Now I can bear this, which is tidy compared to how it was before. Another thing I have John to thank for, besides helping me with my obsession to control everything," he said, looking to the neurosurgeon, who left some folders on the table.

"You seem to manage it well". 

He sighed, shrugging. 

"It's not easy for me. I'm restructuring my mind and using all the relaxation techniques my therapist taught me. But I have to learn to trust others can do things the right way without continuously supervising everything. It's exhausting and stressing. And, above all, the idea of being like Siger is hideous to me. Although to tell you the truth, I'm going crazy. Especially knowing all is my dear brother's idea". 

Both chuckled. Mycroft remained silent for a few moments and became serious again. He looked towards the kitchen. 

"We should start now," he announced. 

Sherlock, who was eagerly devouring one of Mrs Hudson's scones, nodded and, wiping the crumbs off his T-shirt, entered the living room and rifled through his laptop bag, crossing a look with John that he understood instantly. 

"We are going shopping", he announced to Rosie's annoyance. She wanted to know what Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade had to talk about. 

"Can't I stay? Pleaseeee". 

"No, young lady, we need lots of supplies. And we have no one to buy them for us, like in Mycroft's. 

"Okaaaaay," she sighed, resigned. "But you'll tell me later, won't you, Uncle Myc?"

"Only if you're good and obey your father". 

"I hope you'll get him to stop being so bossy," she said to Lestrade and follow her father down the stairs. 

From the window, Lestrade watched as the two walked down the street, turning his attention to Mycroft, who took a photograph that Sherlock gave him and passed it on to Lestrade. 

"Do you recognize him?

He frowned, nodding. It was a photo of someone on file with the police. Taken many years before, but there was no doubt... 

"It's Alex", he said, shocked. 

The lawyer shook his head. 

"His name is William Morris. This photo is from when he was eighteen years old and was first arrested for attempted fraud". 

Lestrade blinked, trying to assimilate the information. 

"No...., I don't understand". 

Mycroft opened his elegant leather briefcase and pulled out a file from it. 

"After being arrested and serving six months in prison, Morris did not get reformed. On the contrary, he resumed his activity under the name of Duncan Ross, which he would later change to Archie Thomas, then Timothy Morris and finally..."

"Alex Spaulding", finished Lestrade almost voiceless. "But... but... then..us… everything...? Nothing...?"

Mycroft inhaled deeply, pursing his lips. 

"It was all a perfectly orchestrated plan that he drew up with his husband and accomplice, the one you know as Thomas Grove, whose real name is John Clay, whom he met during those six months in prison. 

"But... I had nothing. In fact, Alex hired me at his company. He knew that I..."

He stopped talking and looked through the window, thoughtful. Slowly he turned and looked at Mycroft. 

"Our house." 

He nodded and handed Lestrade the photo of the house he bought with Alex and which now owned his ex. 

"This house is the same one that Duncan Ross bought with his first husband, Ronald Aldair, who, after the divorce, for the same reason as you and King, gave up. The same one he bought with Henry King and you". 

Lestrade shook his head, unable to accept what Mycroft was telling him, although, in some remote place of his brain, he knew that it made sense, that it fitted somehow with everything lived with Alex. But that implied that...

"Everything was a lie, then? He was never in love with me?"

Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Not Gregory, I'm afraid. It was a scam, right from the start". 

He felt a strange mixture of grief and relief. Sadness because the five years he spent with the person he thought loved him had been false, for all that he was suffering in vain, thinking that he was not and would never be enough for Alex.

Relief because that set him free. During the last two years of marriage, he asked himself many times if he was really in love with him, if he really loved him or was it fear that made him stay by his side. He drowned that thought as soon as it appeared; by then, he did not have enough courage to face the truth that the facts showed, which, every day he saw reflected in his husband but which he, out of fear, refused to see. 

"Are you all right?" asked Mycroft solicitous. 

Lestrade nodded slowly. He wasn't quite sure how he felt but was relieved. Knowing that his whole relationship with Alex had been fake made him feel more real. During those years he spent by his side, he blurred, ashamed of being how or who he was, of feeling what he felt, of his ideas, ambitions, hopes and dreams, as if he became.

Finally, he could give way to that little voice that, after every Alex's anger, repeated to him that he did not love him, that it couldn’t be lovee; a little voice that he didn't want to listen to, because if Alex did not love him, who would?

"But..., what is the fraud, that is, why… I don't…?”

"Simple. Alex and Tom, we will continue to call them that, looked for rich young people among their first victims who did not hesitate to buy those properties for Alex, their brand new husband" explained Sherlock "Three or four years later, Tom appeared in the house, and they got divorced. Still, instead of taking half of the house, they gave it to Alex. In this way, they accumulated a great deal of real estate". 

"But, as they would soon find out, having a lot of real estates did not imply liquid money and rich young people, after the divorce, often still had enough money to hire lawyers and go against them". 

"They then decided to continue with their modus operandi. They would look for victims who were not very wealthy, Alex would trick them into marrying him, and after a year of marriage, he decided that both of them would buy a new house". 

"But the house was already theirs, so all the money from the mortgage went directly into Alex and Tom's account," Sherlock explained. 

"But... but... we notarized it". 

The writer nodded. He took another photo of a man also on file with the police and handed it to an increasingly bewildered Lestrade. 

"Sebastian Moran. A Notary who did not make a big deal out of every fake sale and purchase that Alex made. Since he changed his name with each transaction, he appeared as a different seller when selling the properties to himself. But all the documentation appeared to be in order. All of Alex's identities were entirely created: birth certificates, social security number, driving licence... all forged, of course. 

"Forged?"

"By Tom. He was serving a sentence for forgery of public documents when they met in prison. He was the one who gave documentary reality to all of Alex's aliases. With that and Moran's signature, everything was legal. The changes were made in the Land Registry, the bank granted the loans after thorough studies, and nobody suspected anything," explained Mycroft. 

"Until Henry King," continued his brother, "he set aside some savings without your ex's knowledge and, with them, he appealed the divorce decree. But if he had succeeded, the entire agreement would have been revised, including the house sale, which could lead to discovering the fraud. So, to prevent it, they destroyed him, physically and emotionally, as he said. That's why, when he realized that emotional blackmail was not enough to make you give up the appeal and the other processes, Alex started to threaten you by text and today, face to face. 

Lestrade looked at them, appalled, trying to assimilate all that information. 

"But, the company... why... why a company, why hire me? No..."

"Alex inherited it from his first ex-husbands, Athelney Jones, who died little after the divorce. Neither of them had any knowledge of investments, so it is in deficit, but still, they realized that it was the ideal place to find their next..." Mycroft paused, looking for the term that would least harm Lestrade "victim". 

He looked at him blankly. 

"What tests did they do to hire you?? Projective personality tests, psycho-technical tests, group dynamics?" asked Sherlock. 

He nodded, puzzled, recalling the battalion of tests he had to do before joining the company, surprising for a position of data recorder like the one he was going to hold: a three-phase selection test, each more complex than the last. 

"They were not assessing your suitability as a worker, but rather if you fit the psychological profile that Alex and Tom were looking for: lonely, shy, introverted singles with self-esteem and relationship problems, but also empathetic, generous and compassionate singles who were easy to woo and make fall in love with him, to get married and perpetuate the fraud.

Lestrade bowed his head in shame and shock. 

"I should have known better."

"It was impossible", explained Mycroft. "They studied you carefully, your tastes, hobbies, concerns, your psychological profile..., he became the perfect soul mate. Like a good con man, he prepared himself thoroughly. In that situation, it was impossible for you not to fall in love with him. Anyone would have done it". 

Lestrade looked out the window without answering. What they said made perfect sense. When he met Alex, he thought he was his soul mate: they shared tastes, hobbies, dreams, passions..., they complimented each other in everything, and he managed to make him feel loved, adored.

If he thought about it, he had been too perfect from the beginning. But at that time, the only thing he believed was that, at last, life finally gave him the one who had been looking for so long, someone who understood him, who loved him as he was, even if he was not worth much, even if he was nothing of the sort. And he thought that Alex was that person. 

Until he married him. 

He hid his face in his hands, ashamed of having been so stupid to believe it, so foolish as to fall into that trap. Sherlock took his notebook and disappeared into his bedroom, giving them space and privacy. Mycroft hesitated for a few moments until I finally got close to him and hugged him.

"Don't blame yourself; you couldn't have known". 

"My friends", he whispered, as tears that he couldn't control rolled down his cheeks ", my friends kept telling me that Alex was too perfect; they didn't like him…, and I..., I didn't listen to them".

"It's not your fault," muttered Mycroft, hesitating for a few moments until he put his hand on Lestrade's hair, caressed it, trying to comfort him. "And we all get a little stupid when we fall in love". 

He tensed up as soon as he uttered those words, incredulous at what he just confessed. But he was reassured to find that Lestrade was too confused to notice. He slowly let go of his embrace, and the painter could not help feeling a little rejected until he realized that Mycroft took off his jacket, which left correctly hanging on one of the chairs and was warming a cup of tea to make him feel better. It was clear that he knew the flat because he had no doubt where everything was.

"The kitchen is John's turf," he explained without turning around, "otherwise it would be impossible to find anything. 

Lestrade smirked, wiping away his tears, reassured by the affection in Mycroft's voice. Despite being a little calmer and accepting what Holmes told him, he could not help but feel ashamed of himself. 

When Mycroft returned with a tray of Lestrade tea, he glanced at the scones that Mrs Hudson had left in the kitchen, thinking that they would help him feel better, but Mycroft shook his head, merely tending his tea. 

"We cannot accuse him of fraud?" he asked after a while. 

"We could, but it would take time to build the case, time we don't have if we want to catch him off guard. Alex is not stupid. After you visited King, he will guess that we have found out something, so he could hide evidence, run away or get nervous and carry out his threats. My firm's investigators are following Sherlock's investigations, and I will soon have all the documentation. Some crimes are already time-barred, but we will be able to use the rest against him," he made a pause. "Of course, only if you decide to go ahead". 

Lestrade meditated for a few moments. His grief and stupefy gradually turned into anger, a deafening rage that seethed him inside, remembering all the pain he had received, for all the lies, for... 

"I want you to crush that bastard."

Mycroft smiled delightedly.

The door opened, and John, Rosie, Anthea and Irene appeared carrying heavy shopping bags, like an expedition in the jungle, and began to place the provisions. They had met the therapist and the lawyer on the stairs, who had offered to help them. Sherlock returned from the bedroom. 

"We're going to make something to eat", announced Rosie. "What...?"

She could not finish the sentence. There was a knock at the door, and Molly and Mrs Hudson rushed into the flat, both looking worried and disconcerted. 

"Mycroft, we have a problem," said the first one, panting as if she came running. The publishing house was not too far from Baker Street. He looked at her in surprise for a few moments, then turned to Sherlock. Before he could start talking, his phone rang. 

"What the hell are you playing at, Mr Holmes?" Donovan's upset shout was perfectly audible even without a speaker. 

"DI Donovan, what are you...?

"Turn on the news", ordered Molly and Mrs Hudson to the chorus, nervously. 

John went over to Sherlock and ran his hand around his waist, hugging him. The writer huddled against him, tense. 

Mycroft turned on the television, which offered breaking news. In front of Molly's editorial office, a journalist spoke to several people who stood in the doorway, waiting to enter it. 

From time to time, the camera showed the rest of the people who were patiently waiting their turn in an endless queue. When the camera focused on them, they shouted in excitement, showing W. Scott's books they were carrying; a moment later, they saw several police officers blocking the surrounding streets and controlling the ever-growing crowd that approached the publishing house. 

The image jumped to Mrs Hudson's bookstore, where another reporter was talking to one of the several agents who were trying to organize the thousands of people who were waiting to enter. As in Molly's publisher's case, they all carried one or more of Sherlock's books in their hands.

Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Rosie, and Irene couldn't take their eyes off the screen, not believing what they saw, watching as the police contained the people that crowded in front of the publisher's door, to prevent them from knocking it down. 

When the reporter asked them what they were waiting for, the crowd's shouting was unintelligible until she managed to talk to a girl in her thirties standing in line. 

"What are you waiting for here?"

"They're handing out invitations for the presentation of the re-edition of W. Scott's latest book!!!!" shouted the girl, in excitement. 

The journalist frowned. 

"But he never makes public appearances. What if it's a hoax?

She shook her head vehemently, showing her phone to the camera. 

"They announced it on his official and the publisher's websites".

Mycroft, shocked, turned slowly to look at his brother, who became ghostly pale.

"Sherlock, what have you done?"


	10. Something you should have done a long time ago

"Why Sherlock?" asked Mrs Hudson, her tone a mixture of astonishment, shock and anger.

Instead of answering, the writer glanced sideways at Rosie and then at Molly.

"Rosie, darling, we're going to..." the publisher began.

"I'm not leaving," she interrupted firmly, crossing her arms with the same stubborn expression John used when he was upset, "I'm tired of being ignored just because..."

"Rosie,..." her father warned her.

"I know what's going on with Siger", she added hastily, "Wilkes told me".

"God," muttered Sherlock, appalled, rubbing his face in desperation.

From the beginning, he refused to let Rosie know of Siger's existence. The writer didn't want him to taint her in the slightest, that Siger's blackness would never tarnish Rosie's light. John agreed to do that way. And now that cretin of Wilkes ruined everything.

John's expression turned murderous.

"I should have killed that asshole when I had the chance. I swear to God I'm going to kill him," John shouted.

He turned to his daughter, furious.

"Why didn't you tell us anything?"

"I told Sally," she explained.

John raised his eyebrows, angrier still.

"I advised her not to say anything to you", Donovan explained into the phone, "I didn't want to have to arrest you again."

"That's not important right now," Mrs Hudson interjected with a firmness not lacking in affection. She turned to Sherlock. "Do you realise what you have done, Sherlock?".

"There was no other way," replied the writer quietly. "Mycroft knows it as well as we do".

His brother pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly.

"That's not the explanation I am asking for", Mrs Hudson replied angrily.

Sherlock sighed

"Siger set his sights on Rosie. His target was no longer me but her. The book, Wilkes, Moriarty... He knows that..." he glanced sideways at the girl and paused. "We had to divert his attention back to me. And this was the only way to do it: organise an event on a par with the great Siger Holmes," he finished, spitting the last words out in disgust.

"He won't dare come with so many people," Greg replied, confused.

Sherlock snorted.

"Quite the contrary. It's what he likes: cameras, crowds, public..., it all serves to flatter his narcissism", he replied.

"But it's crazy", growled Donovan into the phone "it's impossible to guarantee your safety in..." she paused "oh, shit".

"Oh, shit?" asked Mrs Hudson, worried.

Mycroft looked at John, hurt.

"I thought we were in this together."

"And we were. Until that bastard laid eyes on my daughter."

"And you're going to sacrifice my brother for her?"

Rosie looked at him, horrified. John's face grew even harder.

"Not for a second that is my intention, and you should know it better than anyone", he retorted, offended and hurt. "But that it's the only way to get him out of his hole. Sherlock is safe. I will be by his side at all times. But, as he said, we don't want to spend the rest of our lives worrying about Siger."

"We can find him, John," Mycroft replied, frightened.

"That's not true," replied Sherlock. "It's the only way."

"What way?" asked Mrs Hudson, alarmed.

"In the old days, in India, to hunt tigers, villagers tied a goat to a pole and waited until the tiger tried to hunt it and thus catch him. Sherlock wants to be the goat tied to the pole. Although sometimes they ran out of goat and tiger," Sally grunted. 

"Donovan!" Sherlock snarled, feeling a shiver run down his spine.

He wasn't scared, or at least not too much. John would be by his side, and he wouldn't let anything happen to him, just like Mycroft and the rest. But he knew that Donovan's words would worry the others, and it was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

"I strictly forbid it!" shouted Mrs Hudson.

She looked at John, incredulous.

"From Sherlock, I might expect it, but from you... Have you lost your mind too? Are we all going mad?" She turned to Anthea, distressed, "And his PTSD What if...?"

"He can do it, Martha," she reassured her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Sherlock's right," decided Mycroft, "there's no other way. Siger will end up attacking Rosie, or worse."

"We planned it to the last detail. We have it all under control", Sherlock tried to reassure her.

"And his picture won't appear anywhere. We will keep Sherlock as anonymous as he is now," John explained.

There was a solemn and pondering silence.

"DI Donovan, are we still counting on you?" asked Mycroft, breaking it.

Lestrade watched him, amazed. Surprise and fear had given way in a second to pragmatism and intelligence. Any trace of all fear or anguish disappeared from his face, now only showing self-confident and control, except for the intense rage that shone in his eyes. But also, deep down, he could see a hint of fear. The same fear that Sherlock's eyes reflected.

They heard a resigned sigh on the other end of the line.

"Someone sane has to organise this mess."

Mycroft chuckled.

"Thanks, Sally."

"Thank me when I have sorted out the chaos your little brother organised. My bosses went ballistic."

"All right, how do we organise this imbroglio, as Donovan said?" asked Mrs Hudson, who seemed to recover from the shock at the same speed as the lawyer.

"Molly, how long would it take the printer to get the invitations out?" asked Sherlock.

"Do we still keep the date?"

"Of course."

"If I set the printers at full speed, I will have them out in a couple of hours. But I have to put where it will be held."

"It won't appear on the invitations. We will sell it as a publicity stunt to give it more excitement. People will get a message on their mobile phones on the same day. A mystery presentation" replied Sherlock.

"That way, Siger won't be able to prepare in advance," explained John.

"But I do need to prepare it," interjected Donovan.

"At least you could have warned me," growled a worried Mrs Hudson. "I have got the bookstore upside down."

"I'm sorry", muttered Sherlock, contrite, knowing that the bookshop was the least of her concerns at the moment. 

She sighed understanding, and smiled at him, affectionate.

"That's fine. But you and I will talk when this is all over, young man. What's the next step?"

"Molly, you go to the publisher and get it all going," John ordered.

She nodded.

"You two", Sherlock pointed to Mrs Hudson and Rosie ", Go back to the bookstore. Anderson is there, isn't he?"

Mrs Hudson nodded, surprised that the writer asked about him.

"Irene and I can give you a hand", offered Anthea, looking at the images of the long queue outside Mrs Hudson's establishment.

Irene nodded.

"We could do with some help," sighed the bookseller.

"What about us?" asked Lestrade.

"You and I are leaving, Gregory. We must finalise tomorrow's trial preparations," Mycroft replied.

He swallowed hard. In all the commotion, he forgot it would be held the next day.

"We are leaving too",, Mrs Hudson gestured to Rosie, "we have a lot to do."

Rosie turned to her father.

"Will you be all right?" she asked, worried.

"Of course. You don't have anything to worry about".

She hugged him tightly and nodded when he said something in her ear. She turned to Sherlock and kissed his cheek.

"Obey Daddy," she advised him fondly.

The writer rolled his eyes.

"Why do you all treat me like I am a toddler?"

Chuckling as all response, they left the flat.

When they were alone, John looked at Sherlock, whose face now clearly reflected the anxiety he felt.

"Do you still want to go on?" he asked softly, stroking his cheek.

He knew the answer beforehand, but he wanted to give Sherlock the option to say no, to let him he could back out at any moment.

Sherlock nodded, hugging him tightly, relaxing as at the feeling of John's strong body against his, conveying, as always, reassurance, support and encouragement.

"Thank you for being there for me," he murmured, closing his eyes and resting his chin on John's shoulder.

John, concerned, stroked his hair to relax him. For a moment, he wondered if they were doing the right thing if he shouldn't have refused when the writer proposed the plan last night. But he was aware that Rosie had to be taken out of the sights of a predator like Siger as soon as possible.

He sighed uneasily. Deep down, they were dancing to Siger's tune. Choosing Rosie as a target hadn't been accidental; it was obvious. He knew it would force them to reposition themselves and do exactly what they were doing. But John was also looking forward to making the bastard pay for all the damage he inflicted Sherlock.

"The plan will work," he assured.

"I know," the writer muttered, trying to convince himself.

Deep down, he wasn't sure what would happen when, after all this time, he saw Siger again. Facing him on his mind, as he did hundreds of times before, was indeed different from doing it in reality, with the multitude of memories and fears that the very sight of him would bring up. But he had no choice. He had to protect Rosie and John from Siger's cruelty. And he had to get rid of him once and for all.

Sherlock clung to John tightly. As long as he was by his side, he could face anything. The neurosurgeon, realizing the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions bubbling up inside the writer, hugged him even tighter.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"For what?"

"Being such a troublesome person."

"Your troubles are my privilege."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Idiot."

John chuckled and pecked his lips.

"I love you too. Come on, Donovan's waiting for us." 

The car stopped in front of Mycroft's house. During the drive, the lawyer had not uttered a word, concentrating on sending hundreds of text messages. Only when the car stopped did he look at Lestrade and smile shyly, an excited gleam in his eyes.

Roger, who must have been waiting for them, opened the door for them.

"Is everything ready?" asked Mycroft.

"Just as you have arranged, sir."

Mycroft nodded and started down the long glassed-in corridor. Greg smiled at Roger and ran after the lawyer who, without a word, climbed the sweeping staircase to the top two floors. He stopped at the third, in front of a large double sliding door.

"I hope you like it," he announced, opening it.

Greg stepped inside and froze, gaping. The door opened into a large attic room, with large windows and skylights in the ceiling that let light flood. On one of the many shelves lining the walls, neatly arranged, were the pencils and charcoals he had bought, as well as his meagre painting supplies. His drawings were carefully placed on another shelf, and the easel held a blank canvas.

On others, the box of pencils Mycroft gave him various pads and canvases of all sizes. In the next, in an infinite range of colours, watercolours, tempera paints, oil paints, brushes of different thicknesses, crayons, watercolours, new charcoals, graphite pencils, pastel pencils and felt-tip pens. He also had white, black, greys, browns, sanguine and sepia Conté Sticks, crayons, pencils, sharpeners, erasers, stumps...., it was a drawer's paradise.

Near one of the big windows, an illustrator's table with a comfortable chair for drawing. Several easels and drawing boards leaned against the wall in the corner opposite the bookshelf if he needed more.

Greg spun around, ecstatic and speechless. A second later, he burst into tears. Embarrassed, he covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as he tried to control the sobs.

"Is, is something wrong...?" asked Mycroft, puzzled.

It was not at all the reaction he had expected.

Greg shook his head. The lawyer walked over and hugged him. He snuggled against him, hiding his face in his chest, crying like a child, unable to articulate a word, while Mycroft ran his hand down his back or awkwardly stroked his hair, giving him time to calm down.

"I'm, I'm sorry", he managed to apologise at last between hiccups, sobs and sharp inhalations of air. "It's just that..., I've never..., nobody.... did anything like this for me... and..., you can't imagine, after having to lock up all my stuff in the basement, after not being able to paint for years...., what this means to me."

"So you like it?" smiled Mycroft, eyes sparkling.

"If I like it? Are you out of your mind? It's my dream come true" he looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "Thank you, thank you, really, I don't know how to thank you, really. But... it's... I don't know, too much trouble. I don't deserve this..."

"Don't talk rubbish. You deserve it. Besides, the cover designer of W. Scott's new novel can't have another studio." replied Mycroft.

Greg gawked at him, speechless, his brain trying to process the lawyer's words.

"From the new .... Sherlock wants me to design his new cover?" he asked at last, dumbfounded...

Mycroft nodded, smiling.

"He says you are very talented. And I couldn't agree more."

Greg covered his mouth with his hand, ecstatic, about to explode with excitement.

"Don't get so excited. You will have to repeat it a hundredth times", smirked Mycroft mockingly. "You have no idea how fussy Sherlock is about getting the covers to reflect exactly what he wants."

"As if he wants me to make a thousand!" retorted Greg, almost shouting excitedly. Then he chuckled.

"Good thing Sherlock isn't here; I would have hugged him."

Mycroft laughed too. He was surprised when Sherlock proposed it yesterday; he had no idea he'd ever seen Greg's drawings, but he agreed immediately. It would launch Lestrade's career, and, like John, he thought Sherlock could do with concentrating on something other than Siger until the presentation.

"Don't you forget something?" asked Mycroft, teasing and affable, holding out the thick packet Sherlock gave him as they left the apartment building.

"Anything?" he asked, surprised, watching him. His eyes widened wildly, excited, and he took it almost reverently. "God, this is it... I'm going to be the first one at .... Really?"

"Well, it's tricky to draw a cover for a book if you don't know what it's about. It's not finished yet, but it'll come in handy," Mycroft replied, amused to see Greg prancing around the room. "And no, you won't be the first. John is Sherlock's long-suffering beta reader. And when you read it, tell us whether Sherlock should kill the woman or not."

Greg chuckled, remembering that conversation, as he skimmed the manuscript rapidly, riddled with notes in the margins or between the lines in which he recognised Sherlock's horrible handwriting and John's, surprisingly for a doctor, neat handwriting.

He paused, horrified.

"God, you must think I'm a horrible being. With all that happened with Siger and..."

The lawyer shook his head.

"Not at all; we could all do with a little distraction," the unease was palpable in Mycroft's voice.

"Sherlock just wants to protect Rosie."

"I know, I know,...,..., but... it's madness."

Greg nodded, chagrined at having erased Mycroft's mirth in one fell swoop. Mycroft, deducing this, breathed in sharply and forced himself to smile.

"Come on; I'll show you the rest of the house and your room."

Hearing this, Greg felt a pang of disappointment. Somehow he hoped they would sleep together. He dreamed of lying next to Mycroft, cuddling against him, feeling that intimacy, even if it didn't lead to sex. But Mycroft prepared a guest room for him.

He lowered her head. What had he expected? He remembered, mortified when Alex told him that he found his body repulsive after gaining a few pounds from his binge-eating, or when he blamed him that his libido fell off the moment he saw him naked, that he couldn't stand feeling his disgusting fat body next to his. Humiliate, Greg then went to sleep in another room, feeling nauseous and defective, eating to make those feelings go away, and feeling even worse when he couldn't stop eating.

Mycroft clenched his fists, reading it all in Greg's eyes. He would rip Alex's guts out. He walked over to him and, looking into his eyes, took his hands.

"Gregory..., you have to know that...," he cleared his throat, nervous ", I'm dying to kiss you, and I'd love to... sleep together, feel you next to me. Believe me; I want it more than anything" Greg didn't move; his mind refused to believe it ", but..., until the trial is over, it would be best to keep some distance. Otherwise... I won't be able to think of anything but you and the desire I have to kiss you and make love to you..."

The painter smiled shyly, not daring to look at him.

"Really?" he whispered.

Mycroft nodded and cleared his throat again.

"I..., I never... and I don't know..." he rolled his eyes at Lestrade's surprised look. "That's not what I mean. I'm not a virgin. What I mean is that I've never felt this way about anyone, and you.... you short-circuit my brain's biochemistry, Greg Lestrade."

He chuckled at the lawyer's embarrassment.

"That's the sexiest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Mock all you want, but...I assure you, when this is over, you're not getting away from me."

Greg chuckled, relieved.

"I can wait for the trial to be over. In fact, you'd better, or I won't be able to think about anything but you either."

Mycroft smiled, red to the roots of his hair, amazed at the ease with which he opened his heart to him, sharing with him what he had shared with no one. No one had ever made him feel the way Greg did.

He remembered the involuntary pang of jealousy and the feeling of abandonment that came over him when Sherlock found John. Until then, he and Sherlock had been immune to any kind of infatuation, relationship or romance. Somehow they had each other, complicated as their relationship was because they were complicated themselves. But when Sherlock found John, he felt alone and lost, different, knowing that no one would ever look at him how John looked at Sherlock.

Until the day Lestrade climbed into his car, breaking it all down in a second after looking at him with his grey eyes, sad then, but also noble and kind. And when Mycroft lost himself in them, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

He cleared his throat, coming back to reality.

"Come on; I will show you your room. If you miss anything, just tell Roger."

Greg chuckled and took his hand. Mycroft watched their clasped hands for a moment and, smiling, walked beside him down the corridor.

Molly closed her office's door at the publishing house behind her and leaned against it, trying to calm herself and catch her breath. Crossing through the hordes of Sherlock's fans had been almost mission impossible. She, like Mycroft, was the visible faces of the writer, easily recognisable to all his fans; were it not for the expertise of the members of the security team, she would still be cornered at the entrance and peppered with questions by them.

She ruffled her hair, picked up the phone and began to give orders to the printing press, which went into overdrive. She announced the invitations' launch through the website, which would be available in a couple of hours, picked up at the publishing house, Mrs Hudson's bookshop or downloaded from the website.

The date of the event, in three days, was the same, but, as Sherlock asked, the location would be secret until the day of the launch. It would be revealed via a WhatsApp message to all those who had picked up or downloaded the invitation. To get it, they had to write or provide their phone number. 

That was Donovan's idea. That way, she would investigate the phone numbers to check if there were any possible link to Siger in any way. Although Molly wondered if, in suggesting it, it had crossed her mind of the hundreds of thousands they would have to check. She just prayed that Sherlock and John had everything as well in hand as it seemed.

When the printer informed her everything was ready and sent the bookshop invitations, she called Mrs Hudson.

The bookshop was madly buzzing with people. Even after many fans downloaded the website's invitation and left the queue, Mrs Hudson, Anderson, Rosie Anthea, and Irene struggled to organise people, take down phone numbers, and give invitations. It wasn't until three hours later that they handed out the last invitation.

Many fans wanted to pick it up there. Mrs Hudson's bookshop was a landmark where fans regularly came for Sherlock books' various events and readings.

The bookseller smiled as she remembered the first one, years ago, shortly after Sherlock published his first novel. He wasn't well known then, and only about fifteen people attended, apart from the bookshop regulars, a few friends and Molly, whom she knew then, interested in the work of that elusive new writer.

Of course, Sherlock didn't turn up. He debated whether to be in the backroom, listening, or not. He panicked that the book would not be liked that his father was right. A panic that accompanied every word he wrote. 

Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and a few readers already told him it wasn't like that, but Sherlock couldn't control the anxiety. In the end, he decided he couldn't stay there and went back to Baker Street, asking Mycroft to record the reading. He didn't want to hear it. He decided that he would not go through that uncertainty, that hell, again. He would never publish a book again. 

Mrs Hudson sighed, saddened, remembering the festive atmosphere at that reading, so different from the tense one now. She hated Sebastian with all her heart, noticing Rosie's efforts to smile and be kind with customers but not quite managing to get the worry off her face.

She glanced at her, remembering the first time Sherlock took her to the bookshop. The nine-year-old girl immediately won her over, looking at her with her intelligent, expectant blue eyes and her bright smile. Even more so when she adopted her almost immediately as her grandmother. John did not speak to his parents, and Mary's parents were dead, so Mrs Hudson was the closest thing to a grandmother in the girl's life.

She remembered her natural acceptance of Sherlock's phobias, the naturalness with which children accept what is different, which sadly they lose when they grow up. And how she laughed to herself watching them seating a bit closer every day on the sofa or at the table; how Rosie, clairvoyant, approached the writer millimetre by millimetre like she was slowly coming to a stray animal so as not to frighten it.

Since then, they spent many evenings together in the bookshop, sometimes only she and the girl, sometimes with Sherlock, a Sherlock who had changed a lot since he met John, who became more cheerful as if life suddenly weighed less heavily on him.

She knew it from the beginning, from the first time she saw them together, even when John claimed to be just Sherlock's friend. Idiots. They were made for each other and hadn't even realised it. But he knew Sherlock would need time, and there was a chance that John wouldn't be able to handle the emotional baggage the writer carried with himself.

But he did. From the beginning, he was able to see through the fog of fears and anxieties to the exceptional and sensitive human being Sherlock was; he saw clearly what had always been hidden from others. And John was able to do so because, in her own way, he was as unique as Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson was amazed at how curious life sometimes was. When, shortly after her marriage, she was widowed and inherited the bookshop, she assumed she would spend the rest of her life alone, without family or, at most, in the company of Anderson, with whom she had never had an easy relationship.

But, a few years later, Sherlock and Mycroft turned up at the bookshop, looking for work, and became almost her children. Then came Irene, Anthea, Molly and, finally, John and Rosie, making up that different, strange and unique family that made her so happy. Even more so after Greg's appearance, who, like John did with Sherlock, infiltrated quietly and forever into the heart of a lonely Mycroft.

And just now, just when everything was perfect, that damned bastard was back.

She clutched the book in her hands, angrily. No. She would not allow it. She would not let him hurt her family. She swore to herself that day when, after asking Sherlock what he was writing, the boy dropped the notebook, put his hands over his head and burst into tears, absolutely terrified.

She didn't need to be a psychologist to know that this reaction implied that the boy had been beaten or that both siblings were psychologically abused. She suspected it from the start, but Sherlock was too traumatised to bring it up, and Mycroft wrapped himself in a wall of sullen silence impossible to penetrate.

She found it hard to forget the trial. At night, he heard Sherlock screaming in his sleep, his brother soothing him, the two of them talking for hours, not sleeping a wink, the fear palpable in both their voices, even if Mycroft always tried to hide it so as not to frighten his brother more. Fear of nobody would believe them, as happened before, of Siger being considered innocent, of his father reappearing in their lives.

At that moment, she reaffirmed her decision never to let that devil hurt them again, neither of them.

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that the place was finally empty. She hurried to close the door before anyone else could enter.

"I'm dead", she muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, "I think we earned ourselves some tea and cake".

"Rest, Martha, Rosie and I will prepare it", Anthea offered, glancing sideways at the girl, who nodded.

She smiled, gratefully, exhausted from the merry-go-round of emotions she had been on for the past few hours.

Anthea turned and looked for Anderson.

"Philip, can you pick up those books and put them in the back room?" she asked, ignoring his annoyed gesture, though not dared to contradict her, and went into the back room with them.

"When does Mycroft's car come to fetch you?" asked Anthea to Rosie.

"In an hour and a half, though, I would have preferred to stay with Daddy and Sherlock in Baker Street," she replied contritely.

"I know, but they couldn't listen to you or look after you. To organise a book launch at the London Pavillion... I wouldn't want to be in their shoes or Molly's now. How on earth did they pick that theatre?" she asked as if to himself, putting the kettle on and taking a chocolate sponge cake out of the small fridge.

"It's Sherlock's favourite. He says it brings back good memories. He's getting sentimental", joked Rosie, putting five cups on a tray, along with six plates and six teaspoons. "But don't tell him I told you".

Anthea chuckled, poured the tea, and prepared it exactly as she knew each of them liked it. The four of them sat down at the table.

"Aren't you coming, Philipp?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"I want to finish this inventory," replied her nephew, holding out a long sheet. He took his tea and his slice of cake and carried them to the back of the bookcase.

His aunt, for a moment, seemed tempted to say something to him but finally shrugged; it did not escape her that, from time to time, Anthea and Rosie glanced sideways at an Anderson, who, oblivious to everything, was immersed in his task.

Irene's phone vibrated. She read the message and frowned, worried.

"Sorry, I have to go to Mycroft's", she turned to Anthea and kissed her on the lips. "Don't wait up for me."

Anthea nodded, worried. She was used to nights alone while Mycroft and Irene worked into the wee hours of the morning, but never the day before the trial. The lawyer liked to have everything under control to the millimetre, which was when they could relax. She didn't ask anything, however. His wife's worried expression left no room for doubt. Something was wrong.

"Shall I come with you, Irene?" asked Rosie, who also noticed it, making a gesture to get up,

"No, there's no need, darling. It's something your uncle and I have to sort out. You stay here and rest. Tomorrow is a big day for you too". 

Without another word, she stormed out of the bookshop. Rosie stirred, fidgeting in her chair, annoyed that Irene didn't want to share it with her but excited at the prospect of sitting next to her and Mycroft at the trial the next day. She would only be a listener because she was not yet licensed to practise, but Mycroft wanted her to participate as actively as possible, to enhance her training. She bit her lip thoughtfully, wondering what it could be that had worried the lawyer so much.

An hour and a half later, a black car pulled into the driveway.

"Martha, do you want us to take you to Molly's?" asked Rosie.

They had decided that she stayed with her so that she wouldn't spend those days alone.

"No, thanks, dear. I already texted her to come and pick me up in a little while. I want to finish tidying up all this mess."

Rosie nodded and kissed her on the cheek. She and Anthea went out and got into the car, waiting for them in the driveway.

"If you don't mind, I'm going too," Anderson announced a few minutes later, rubbing his hands together, nervously, "I'm exhausted."

Mrs Hudson nodded.

"Yes, go quietly. It's been a long day for all of us."

He walked a couple of steps and turned back, restless.

"Do you need anything? Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, don't worry. I won't stay long. In an hour, Molly is coming to pick me up."

She sat at the table, taking the inventory her nephew left half-finished, listening to him wander around the shop until he said goodbye and went out.

Mrs Hudson got up quickly, grabbed her coat and waited by the door. When she thought that her nephew had gone far enough away, she left the bookshop and followed him at a safe distance.

After stopping at Anthea's, the car arrived at Mycroft's house, where Roger was waiting for her with the door open.

"Thank you, Roger," she greeted, threw her rucksack on the doorstep and ran upstairs.

"Rosamund, pick up your rucksack." Mycroft's amiable but firm voice came to her from his office.

Rosie chuckled, hurried downstairs, and stopped Roger, who was already bending down to pick it up.

The butler looked at her, smiling.

"You're worse than Sherlock, miss Rosie."

She burst out laughing and ran back up the stairs. Although she was uneasy and a little worried about Siger's possible appearance, she tried not to appear so. She knew it was a futile effort in the face of Mycroft and Sherlock, but she hoped that at least John wouldn't notice.

She was a brave girl, too. She always had been. John taught that panicking panic beforehand was useless; it was best to face the future like a surgical operation, plan the details as much as possible, and prepare for the unexpected, confident that she could deal with it, alone or with help.

She also saw Sherlock struggle with his panic and anxiety, overcome his phobias; in fact, she became a great support to the writer, with whom she felt a great affinity from the first moment.

She liked the shy air with which he turned away when she tried to hug his legs or lie next to him on the sofa at the age of nine. She didn't interpret it as rejection in any way because John explained to her, in a way, she could understand why Sherlock behaved in that way and how, in time, it would change.

She and Sherlock spent many hours together, at home or in the bookshop, while John worked, hours in which the writer played with her, read to her, or created games to entertain herself while he wrote. Often, however, she sat beside him at the table, drawing or typing on her tablet, imitating him, while Sherlock wrote; at others, she listened intently to his novel's convoluted plots. She found the world of investigators, forensic evidence and unsolved cases absolutely fascinating from minute one. She loved to listen to him when he read paragraphs from his novels or other thrillers and noir novels, ignoring Mrs Hudson's protests that these were not reading for a little girl. Nonsense.

The only disagreement between them was Sherlock's refusal to let her call him Papa. The writer flatly refused since the beginning but didn't gave her any reason, so she resigned herself to not doing so, without understanding why. Until a few days ago, after Wilkes stalked her in the street. Hours later, through Mary's email address, he sent her all the information about Sherlock and Mycroft's father trial.

Struck and horrified after reading all the documents, she didn't know what to do at first. She knew that if she told her father, he would strangle Wilkes. And she didn't want to talk to Sherlock either, so she decided to call Sally. They became good friends during her visits to the NSY's archives, and Rosie trusted her. They both agreed not to say anything to John. And Rosie finally understood why Sherlock's stomach knotted every time she called him Papa. Too many bitter memories, too many fears, too much pain associated with that word. And, contrary to Wilkes' intention when sending the mail, she admired Sherlock even more.

As well as Mycroft. The lawyer, from the start, was a tougher nut to crack than Sherlock; Rosie could tell he preferred to keep his distance, but, in that apparent rejection, she sensed a fear of getting attached to her. In time she understood that it was because if, in the long run, John and Sherlock didn't work out. He knew that living with his brother was not easy and that John had to be made of excellent stuff to maintain a relationship with his brother. And he was. And when he was sure their relationship was stable, did he allow himself to be affectionate and loving towards Rosie, though never in public, which she never minded. She understood them he was scared to lose her.

She ran upstairs and slowly opened the door to Mycroft's office. Mycroft, his tie loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled up, was deep in concentration on a document while Irene searched for information on her laptop. They both looked tired, and, from their concerned expressions, she knew something was wrong with Greg's trial.

"Uncle Myc, can I help you with something?" she asked quietly.

The lawyer, who until that moment did not seem to have been aware of the girl's presence - something unusual for him - smiled, trying to relax the gesture.

"No, Rosamund, we are only checking technical details of the process. Don't worry. Gregory's in his study if you want to go with him."

Rosie nodded. She knew perfectly well that her uncle wasn't telling the truth and was throwing her out, but she didn't say anything. She just hoped Greg would not have any problems at the trial.

Irene looked at the door the girl just closed.

"Are you going to let her continue to intervene in the proceedings?" she asked.

Mycroft sighed and nodded.

"She worked very hard, and it's good for her training."

Irene pursed her lips.

"She is very fond of Greg. This will be very hard on both of them."

"I know. I will ask her to move out of the room".

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, emotionally drained. He couldn't stop worrying about Sherlock, and now, the lawsuit that Alex was going to file forced them to change, in one night, the entire trial strategy.

"Gregory is going to hate me. This is going to destroy him," he sighed, dejectedly.

Irene patted his arm.

"I'm sorry, there's no other way. But he will understand why you did it. If we don't do it this way, Greg will end up in jail, and his ex will get off scot-free."

Mycroft nodded as if trying to convince himself and turned his attention back to the papers.

"You like to do things in a big way, don't you, Holmes?"

Donovan's footsteps echoed on the wood of the London Pavillion's stage as she approached John and Sherlock.

"Do you know how many nooks and crannies there are in this place? Not to mention the stage machinery. And the subways. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Don't worry. Siger won't get in anywhere but the front door, and he won't hide," Sherlock assured him.

Donovan nodded. She didn't quite understand their stubbornness in choosing that place. Too big, too many hiding places. But they both seemed pretty sure of what they were doing. And he trusted John's judgement. If it were leaking in too many places, he would have stopped it all. Which reminded her...

She stretched out her arm towards John and wiggled her fingers.

"Give me the gun."

He looked at her with an innocent expression and shrugged.

"What gun?"

"Come on, John, don't play dumb. I know perfectly well that, with the lighter replica Sherlock likes so much, they gave you a real P99, the gun that Lana uses in the novels. And only I and my men will be armed".

The doctor rolled his eyes and, annoyed, pulled the gun from the back of the waistband of his jeans. He took it before leaving Baker Street in case they met Siger on the way. Huffed and put it in the DI's hand.

"How did you know?" asked Sherlock, surprised.

"Rosie told me when she called me about Wilkes", she looked at John warningly. "Don't try to get another. I can ignore this one, but I won't do the same with another one, okay?"

John nodded, resigned.

"What's the layout going to be?"

"The table will be over there" Sherlock pointed to the centre of the stage. "It'll be Mycroft and me."

"No one else?"

"No, otherwise it might scare Siger away. And we don't want anyone taking unnecessary risks."

"We will close off the upper floors, thus limiting the capacity," John explained.

"Great. That way, we could control the space. I'll put agents on the sidelines, in the boxes and on the stage. Four and, counting me, five. I can't bring any more."

"That will be enough," John replied.

"I guess you'll be on one of the sides behind the curtain".

"You sense right."

Donovan sighed, looking around.

"Right. This will work only if absolutely no one goes off-plan. I don't want any heroes, John."

"Don't worry."

"You really think he will come?"

"Trust me. He will," Sherlock replied. 

Donovan watched him for a few seconds.

"I still hate the way you make NSY look like a bunch of fools in your novels, Holmes, but I have to hand it to you; you've got balls."

Sherlock smirked.

"I didn't expect a compliment from you."

"Don't make me regret it," smirked Donovan.

The three of them chuckled.

"Thanks for helping us, Sally," said John.

She held up her hand to play it down. Sherlock frowned.

"You know what this is about, don't you?"

Sally rolled her eyes. Wasn't there anything this guy missed? She nodded.

"Being a cop doesn't immunise you from falling into the hands of an abusive bastard", she sighed at John's surprise ", and that's it. No more questions."

"Sorry to hear that."

Donovan twisted his face.

"It was a while ago. Ugly, long and painful, but it's over. And if I see a single gesture of compassion, I will shoot you."

"You have a lot more in common with Sherlock than you think," John joked.

"This is going to end badly."

The three of them chuckled again, then looked around thoughtfully.

"Go home", Sally ordered hands on her hips, turning in on herself. "There's not much more we can do here. All that's left to do is wait".

John and Sherlock nodded. Silently, they left the theatre and walked to John's car, parked in a nearby alley. They got in, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes, exhausted.

"Are you all right?"

He went to nod but shook his head. He wiped a trembling hand over his mouth. His throat was dry.

"I'm scared. And I hate it", he mumbled. "I hate that just thinking about him still scares me. I hate that he still has this power over me. Like... as nothing has changed."

He leaned his elbow on the window and ran his hand through his hair, dejected.

John took his hand and interlocked his hands with his.

"You are not the same as you were then, even if sometimes fear makes you think you are. But nothing is the same. He no longer has power over you. Besides, everything is planned to the millimetre. Nothing can go wrong. We will catch that bastard".

Sherlock sighed and gave him a sidelong glance.

"You're an angel, John Watson."

"Not exactly, but I'll take that as a compliment," he replied, starting the engine. 

Rosie watched in fascination as Greg sketched her portrait on a sheet of paper. When she came upstairs, she found him concentrating on a drawing, which the painter immediately covered up with another canvas, on the pretext that it was unfinished. Rosie rolled her eyes in amusement. It was evident from his startle when she entered that it was something he did not want Mycroft to see.

With the obvious intention of deflecting the subject, Greg picked up a sheet of paper and began to draw her profile while she followed the fluid, smooth, confident pencil's strokes. It was kind of magical to watch the drawing sprout from nothing and, little by little, materialise before her eyes. At first, just a few visible features. Now, her face was perfectly recognisable on paper.

A while later, with the drawing half-finished, they heard Roger walking towards the front door. Rosie tugged on Lestrade's hand, and they both descended the stairs. Surprised, the painter saw John and Sherlock chatting with Mycroft and Irene.

Rosie hugged them in exhilaration. She had been tense, waiting, and only relaxed when she saw them walk in the door. It was clear for Lestrade that he was the only one who didn't know they wouldn't be staying in Baker Street.

Fear cramped his stomach, watching them. If that came out at the trial, he would lose Mycroft; he would lose them all.

Mrs Hudson stopped a few feet from the building Anderson had just entered. As she set off after him, she prayed that her nephew headed straight for home and that all her suspicions would remain just that.

They began when Sherlock asked her about Anderson, something he hadn't done in years, and grew stronger when Anthea deliberately asked Philip to go into the back room while she and Rosie talked about the London Pavilion. She knew that this was not the place for the presentation, just as, contrary to what Rosie had said, Sherlock and John would not be staying in Baker Street.

So there was only one explanation. They were setting up his nephew. Sherlock and the others knew something she didn't, that wanted to hide from her, but why? She shook her head, rejecting the suspicion that settled in her chest, refusing to believe it, a fear that weakened as she followed him to his home. 

But when Anderson changed course and headed towards that part of town reserved for the docks and furtive transactions, her soul fell to his feet.

She wrapped herself in her coat, staring at the dark and lonely street, hesitating about what to do. Finally, she decided to wait for his nephew to get out and then ask him. She needed to know why, she needed to know how could he...

Her mind went blank when she noticed the barrel of a gun pressed against her back.

"One noise and your nephew will die. And you don't want that, do you, my dear Mrs Hudson?" someone whispered behind her.

She shook her head and raised her hands, slowly, silently cursing for allowing herself to be caught in such a stupid way. She never thought someone could have been following or waiting for her. But it was evident that she had been dead wrong.

The gun pressed even tighter against her back.

"Move".

She hesitated for a moment. Maybe this guy wouldn't dare shoot her, but it was clear that he would carry out his threat to Philip; resigned, she ambled towards the door through which he had entered a few minutes before.

She stopped in front of it. The gloved hand of the man pointing at her knocked at it several times rhythmically. Someone opened it, and she received another push with the gun.

She stepped inside and walked a few steps. She stopped, frozen when she saw the man sat at the back of the room.

"Mrs Hudson, glad to finally meet you again," he said in a tone that indicated precisely the opposite.

She closed her eyes, trying to contain the shiver that ran down her spine as she heard that hateful, cold voice after so long. She stood up and breathed in sharply, trying to appear calm, and walked purposefully towards the man sitting in an armchair at the back, who stood up as she approached. In a couple of chairs beside him, Philip and Sebastian Wilkes watched her approach, the former with horror, the latter with disdain.

"Aunt, what...?"

Mrs Hudson stopped in front of Siger, staring at him almost unblinkingly, trying to let her gaze convey all the disgust and contempt she felt for him. Except for the fact that his hair had gone grey and a few wrinkles and scars populated his face, the man hadn't changed much.

"You see, Jim?" he said mockingly, "If you know how to wait, everything you need comes to you. I told you that sooner or later that idiot Anderson would come in handy. And look, he brought the bitch who pushed my kids to report me," he finished with a threatening growl.

Moriarty, who had stood behind Mrs Hudson, detached the gun from her back and holstered it. Chewing gum, he stood beside Siger and nodded, delighted and amused. Next to Siger's towering six-foot-four and hulking frame, he looked almost like a child.

"And I would do it again. A thousand times. Prison is where scum like you belong."

The smirk left Siger's face, and he fixed his eyes on her. The same eyes that made her hair stand on end at the trial the first time she saw them. The same eyes that terrified Sherlock as a child when Siger stared back at him. "Cold, hate-filled, lifeless, shark-like eyes," the boy had described them to her then and, at the trial, she realised she was right. They were almost the same grey as Mycroft's, but, unlike his, Siger's only conveyed madness, hatred, coldness and cruelty.

He stared at her, not averting his cruel gaze for a second, as he did with his children. He knew the power of his gaze, how terrifying it could be. Mrs Hudson swallowed, frightened, and averted her gaze but did not back away. She would let him know that she was afraid.

Philip looked at Sebastian, desperate.

"Sebastian, this was not what we agreed."

She looked at him, horrified and dejected. That why Siger followed Rosie and found where Sherlock and John were. He didn't need to look for them. Her nephew told everything to that Wilkes, who turned out to be in cahoots with Siger.

"Shut up," barked the latter.

Anderson shrank back and lowered his head in fright. It was evident that he hadn't counted on finding him there either.

"Sherlock and Mycroft know I'm here," replied Mrs Hudson. "And New Scotland Yard. Shortly..."

Siger chuckled mockingly. A dull, sinister laugh, with no mirth in it.

"Don't strain yourself, my dear. Your nephew was the only fool who did not know you were following him. He just sent that publisher a message telling you will be staying at your sister's for the next two days to rest."

Mrs Hudson looked at him, horrified, and then at her nephew, who lowered his head in regret.

"Bring the van," Siger ordered Sebastian, who got up and left the room.

"Leave them alone!" ordered Mrs Hudson furiously. "Don't you realise the damage you've done to your children? Haven't they suffered enough?" she cried, her fists clenched, her eyes filled with tears, rage overcoming fear.

"Shut up!" shouted Siger, giving her a hard slap that made her stumble; she would have fallen to the ground but for Philip's hold on her.

Siger walked over to her, who was wiping the blood from her broken lip with her hand, looking up at him defiantly. 

"I raised them, I clothed them, they never lacked for anything. I gave them everything they could want: good schools, expensive clothes, good food, a great house, money…, they had everything. And if I was hard on Sherlock, it was so that he would stop thinking about this stupid thing of writing."

"You almost killed him", growled Mrs Hudson between clenched teeth.

"Oh, yes. That was what he told the jury. All he did at the trial was lie and whine, and that bunch of fools on the jury believed him," replied Siger with hatred. "He lied, as always. if he had followed my rules, I would not have had to punish him. I did it for his own good. But everyone believed his lies. No one understood how hard it was to…".

"And Mycroft? Did he believe him too?"

The man narrowed his eyes at the sound of his eldest son's name.

"Mycroft was like me," he said proudly, "Straight, hard-working, blameless. But Sherlock turned him against me." He spatted scornfully.

"How can you say that? You heard Mycroft at the trial."

He bowed his head, watching her.

"Because you poisoned his head, as Sherlock did. He always found someone to stick up for him: his brother, you, the surgeon... but thanks to you, my dear, that's all over".

"I will never help you to…"

Siger grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the building while Jim pulled Anderson. Sebastian got out of the van and, along with Moriarty, shoved them into the back and slammed the door shut. Then they both climbed into the front.

"Get us out of here," shouted Mrs Hudson, banging on the door, "You have no right to..."

The door burst open. Moriarty looked at her, bowing his head, pointing a gun at Philip.

"Shut up. If you scream, I'll shoot him if you make trouble. I'll shoot him. And believe me, I'm looking forward to it," he tilted his head and looked at Anderson, who flinched, "I hate snitches."

Mrs Hudson sat in the back without saying anything. She could read in his eyes that she was telling the truth. A second later, the van started up.

"Where are they taking us?" she whispered.

"I don't know", Anderson mumbled, crestfallen, "I'm..., I'm sorry, you shouldn't be here. How...?"

"Why, Philip?" she asked, holding on tightly so as not to crash into the walls as the vehicle started up with a loud jolt and began to move. There was no accusatory note in her voice, only desolation and despondency.

His nephew shook his head and hid his face in his hands.

"No..., I... I didn't know him... I swear... I... I just made a deal with Sebastian."

"With Sebastian? In exchange for what?"

"In exchange for appearing on his show."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, defeated.

"On his... God, this is why you put everyone in danger?"

He lowered his head.

"I was only talking to Sebastian! I didn't know that... and I never thought that you... I would never have put you in danger, Auntie. Not you, not anyone. We just wanted to... bust-up Sherlock's presentation, really... I didn't know he was with Siger, I swear!"

Mrs Hudson sighed, defeated and frightened but not surprised. She believed him when he said he had only spoken to Sebastian. She pulled out her phone. She had to get Sherlock any way she could, but the van must have had a signal jammer because there was no line. That's why they hadn't taken it off.

She regretted not having warned Mycroft that she would be following Philip.

"It'll be all right, Auntie," Anderson muttered, kneeling next to her and trying to take her hand, but she turned her hand away, hurt.

That made him sink even deeper. When he reached the warehouse and Sebastian led him to Siger, he got speechless. Sebastian never mentioned him, so he never imagined he was in business with him. No matter how much he picked on Sherlock and all the horrible things he said and did to him, the last thing he would ever want was to be face to face with Siger. The look in his eyes chilled the blood in his veins.

He dropped to the floor and hid his head in his hands, devastated. He had a great time with Sebastian planning how to blow up Sherlock's act. It would be so easy... They'd just have to do something similar to what they did in New York. That way, he, with Wilkes's help, would have a clear path to develop his career as a writer, finally getting out of Sherlock's shadow.

Mrs Hudson looked at him, overwhelmed. She didn't realise how much resentment her nephew built up. She knew it had been tough for Anderson to live through Sherlock's success. To accept that he was a genius who far surpassed the rest of his generation's novelists, hence his unprecedented success.

That and Mycroft's refusal to let him participate in anything related to Sherlock's books deprived him of the possibility of launching his career in the heel's of Sherlock's, success as happened to several writers at Molly's publishing house.

But she thought he would feel lucky when Mycroft didn't take him to court; it was the only thing the lawyer agreed to when she interceded on her nephew's behalf, but only because he knew Sherlock would have to testify too, and it would be hard for him. She thought he learned his lesson. And now...

"It'll be all right, Auntie," he repeated, frightened, trying to reassure her and himself at the same time.

She looked at him with sad, frightened eyes and sighed. She took his hand and squeezed it, trying to reassure him. Philip looked absolutely repentant and scared, and she didn't want to hurt him more.

A couple of hours later, the van stopped with a loud thud. The door opened, and the evening light poured in, forcing them to shield their eyes with their hands.

Moriarty made them get out of the vehicle. The van had stopped in the spacious garden of a two-storey beach villa. Where the hell were they?

They turned and saw Siger coming out of the house and walking towards them. He took away Mrs Hudson's phone, unlocked the location and signalled Sebastian and Jim to move the bookseller and her nephew to be both in front of the house.

"Please," Mrs Hudson wailed, her eyes filled with tears, "Siger, for God's sake... it's your son."

The man did not answer. His mouth twisted into a sneer. He focused his phone on her and began recording.

Mrs Hudson lowered her head, horrified, listening to Siger's words.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson," he grunted when he finished the record ", he is my son, and you just brought him directly to me; something you should have done a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome  
> 


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